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CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

(Dolce Far Niente) 











Familiar Letters of Flittings ^ Round 






NAPLES 






CITY OF 






SWEET-DO-NOTHING 






BY 






AN AMERICAN GIRL 






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NEW YORK 






THE ALICE HARRIMAN COIVIPANY 











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Copyright, 1912 
THE ALICE HARRIMAN COMPANY 



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CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

(Dolce Far Niente) 



Oh, for a heaher full of the warm South.** 

— Keats. 



TO M. 

S. S November, 19 — 

MARVELOUS sunset to-night ! Rose and violet and gold — 
proof that we near hell* Italia where sunsets are meeting 
ground for all rainbows of the world. Indeed all sunsets have 
miysteriously taken on added magic and splendor since moment we 
touched these Mediterranean waters. Sea itself so serene and 
wonderfully blue one longs to be a mermaid. Foretaste of the 
Tyrrhenian we shall know at Naples — already a vast pool of 
liquid lapis-lazuli, shading darkly purple, with the purple of 
Old World irises, when mysteries hidden in these waters are 
stirred as we sail swiftly toward the Siren's port of Parthenope. 
Sky too is of Napoli, like some wonderful Cathedral haldacchino 
of Our Lady. Ever blue, blue! — shades unnameable, inde- 
scribable! In truth did I tell you symphony of a thousand 
blues, 'tis no fantastic rhapsody. For there is the cobalt of 
before the dawn and the delicate turquoise when once day has 
scattered his first gold across the heavens. And ultramarine and 
deepest sapphire glow at those splendid hours when the sun, 
like the very Host in wonderful monstrance of precious gold, 
hung high above us. And shades of deep indigo of mystery as 
night fell and the eyes of God, as these Italians sweetly call the 
stars, shone through with the magic of their pellucid light to 
light us on to Napoli. Land where for each of us perhaps, proph- 
ecies are to be fulfilled just as long ago prophecy of his Goddess- 
Mother was to the Pious ^neas at last fulfilled on those same 
fabled shores. 

And as one nears Naples, that wondrous land of god and 
goddesses, one understands why down below in steerage hundreds 
and hundreds of the picturesque people of that poetic land to- 
ward which we hasten, are herded together, smiling even in mal 



4 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

de mer and meeting a thousand discomforts with glad shouts of 
song. Glad Neapolitan boating songs and chants mysterious 
are wafted to these upper decks all hours of day. Though I 
love best of all that strange music made each night, once the 
bold chants of Funicoli Funicola are hushed, by a Franciscan 
friar — of those sweet vows; of Poverty, Chastity and Obedience 
you know — and a serious young fellow with Dante's dark eyes, 
who with much bepuffed cheeks plays on a queer pipe. Pipe, 
such as some shepherd of Theocritus might have piped, though 
no doubt 'tis more like those very instruments Shakespeare 
(Bacon or someone mysterious!) refers to in Othello — 

" Why masters have your instruments been in Naples 
that they speak i' the nose thus ? " 

To-night the weird music wafts o'er the water above which the 
golden sickle of moon is mirrored mysteriously, in hymns to 
Our Lady, Star of the Sea, sung by the humble son of St. Fran- 
cis who no doubt counts the world well lost. But early to-mor- 
row — so early that I shall still be dreaming of the sirens who 
once sported in these magic waters — bold love songs as bold 
as the sun itself, will be chorused across the scintillating sea 
so loud that for surety ears of some dark-eyed girls of Naples 
must burn as they wait for these sun-scorched men who have 
left little of their Southern romance in America — and little 
of their garlic too, perhaps ! And if need be when Spring re- 
turns they once again migrate to America in search of gold. 
But not as emigrants. For to these sons of Napoli there is no 
gold of world to compare with that gold of their own Partheno- 
pian sunshine. 

Already we ourselves seem to catch glimpse of that myoucal 
golden beauty waiting somewhere across these sapphire seas and 
feel the subtle fascination of the land stealing over us. Is it 
true, I wonder, that once under spell of her presence one is never 
again free from the witchery of this Italy .»* And does Par- 
thenope, the divine Siren, fling her spell even yet over those who 
enter her smiling city of dolce far niente? Chi sa? — who 
knows ? , 



Hear then, oh, hear the sea-maid's airy shell; 
Listen, oh, listen! 'tis the siren sings, — 
The spirit of the deep, — Parthenope, — 
She who did once i' the dreamy days of old 
Sport on these golden sands beneath the moon. 
Or poured the ravishing music of her song 
Over the silent waters, and bequeathed 
To all these sunny capes and dazzling shores 
Her own immortal beauty and her name." 

— Anna Jameson 



4? * 



TO M. 

Last Day at Sea. 

HEAVENS of aqua-marine and sea of cerulean blue again 
to-day as we skim through the sapphire on way to find that 
j ewel box of the world called Italy,- — skimming through the 
water like some great sea-bird impatient to gain land. All 
morning the steeragers have been cheering and shouting and 
singing — faces toward the magic East. One feels the mystery 
of Italy in the very sun-satiate air — some subtle mysterious 
sense of a world of sun and warm vibrating color. And with 
Italia all but in sight it is surely entirely too prosaic to think 
of going down into a salon for dinner to-night. We must have it 
served here on deck — some Italian dolci and one of those grace- 
ful, long-necked, straw-covered flasks of Chianti. Steeragers 
are sending glad shout after shout, out over the shimmering, 
scintillating waters in greeting to the beckoning Napoli and 
everyone on ship — yes, even Tenente B. with the coming duel 
never very far from his thoughts — is gay and happy knowing 
that within few hours more we shall enter door of bell' Italia, 
sweet Land of Yesterday, land of romance, and song, and dolce 
far niente! 



" The cloudless moon 
Roofs the whole city as with tiles of silver; 
The dim, mysterious sea in silence sleeps; 
And straight into the air Vesuvius lifts 
His plume of smoke. How beautiful it is! ** 

— Longfellow, " Michael Angelo '* 

* 4* 



TO M. 

S. S Naples — November — 

HAS any city in the world half the sublime loveliness of this 
Napoli? But no — it were impossible, that! Sleep too, is 
impossible for wondering over her beauty — her maj estic glory — 
this Old World Naples of mystery and enchantment. And who 
knows what secrets are hid in her tortuous little streets climb- 
ing up from the bay ? Ah, this enrapturing, entrancing, enchant- 
ing city ! — surely one might say with all ardor — *' Vedi Na- 
poli e poi muori! "* One begins to realize something of the 
passion and adoration which caused Lord Byron to cry *' Italia! 
oh, Italia! thou who hast the fatal gift of beauty." Che hellezza! 

Ah, this never-to-be-forgotten night as we steamed slowly into 
port! Surely there can be no other way to enter Italy but 
through Bay of Napoli, yielding oneself up at once to call of the 
Siren of Naples, who having founded her city, now lives in the 
sapphire of the bay, flinging her subtle spell over people of all 
nations. 

Surely Paradise itself can have no more beautiful portals 
than God has given Naples. On either hand an island, guardian 
angel of the city. Capri, " an isle 'twixt heaven, air, earth and 
sea," and Ischia, home of the adored Vittoria Colonna. Ahead 
towered the mighty Vesuvius — " peak of hell rising from Para- 
dise," so Goethe said. And so it seemed as it towered with its 
crown of red fire o'er this city to-night, for Naples is surely the 
paradise of Italy — even as Italy is paradise of the world. 

No pen can depict the marvelous, matchless beauty of the 
scene as our vessel turned and we faced the city — Naples ris- 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 7 

ing from the water, a glorious amphitheatre bedecked with 
her thousand lights. Over all silver sheen of ethereal light 
from the Italian moon. Marvelous beauty! Earth was 
" crammed with heaven " as Elizabeth Browning somewhepe 
said. 

I think, there were tears in Tenente B.'s eyes as well as in 
our own — so wonderful the loveliness of this Napoli. Or is it 
not the beauty so much as a spell which has been flung over us — 
Spell of the Siren which broods over this city of Parthenope.'* 
Chi sa? 

As we drew nearer, I remembered those lines of Virgil — the 
only ones I could ever quote — " And ' Italy ' tings first 
Achates' voice, and Italy with shouts of joy my comrades greet! " 
I myself, was Achates — the steeragers and other Italians stand- 
ing in dark groups on the lower decks and sending up shout 
after shout, might well be comrades of ^neas. Here and there 
stood a dark, gloomy fortress, brooding perhaps over its past 
splendor, and somber palazzi picked out here and there by a 
lit window. Around us swarms of little rowboats alive with 
loudly calling, gesticulating men and boys — sailing vessels, 
tugs, and East India merchantmen — here a great transatlantic 
liner like our own — there a man-of-war looming stealthily, yet 
of massive strength. And thus we drew nearer and nearer. 

In one of the small boats men and women with guitar and 
mandolin were singing the Neapolitan boating songs and the 
beautiful Dolcezza which the prima donna has so ofteni sung for 
us during these two weeks at sea — 

" Tutta al mondo e vano 
Ne I'amore agni dolcezza.** 

" All is vain under the sun — in love lies every happiness ! " 
It may be truth — yet just now it seems every happiness may 
lie in the adorable Italy itself, rather than in love ! 

We stood there all taken with the beauty of the city, when 
presto! a well known voice and pair of broad shoulders making 
their way towards us takes the form of — F ! Of all happy sur- 
prises ! We thought he had gone to Paris and London weeks 
ago. 

A letter reached him yesterday in Rome saying that we were 



8 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

on this steamer and he declares he left in very* crisis of a million- 
dollar coup — much to astonishment of the dignified Italians ! — 
caught the train for Naples and has been haunting the steam- 
ship office all day for the latest reports. He had been circling 
around our vessel in little rowboat as we slipped slowly into 
port, and the moment steps were lowered, rushed up with such 
speed he thinks he knocked an astonished sailor into the 
water. But what of that when he was seeking me? he asked 
with the debonair charm of the F. of old. 

He had hoped we would reach Naples earlier so that we might 
go to the opera — F. is like all Italians and music-mad. But 
though it was too late for the theater and we had given up 
spending the night at the Hotel F. and Tenente B. both insisted 
we go ashore for a drive around the city and up to the Hotel 
to see the rooms. So we were soon in street gowns and making 
our way down the ship's ladder. I, quite happy at seeing F., 
jumped into the rowboat at the foot of the ladder, with spirito 
so contrary to Italian adagio, that I all but upset the small craft 
and called forth, very likely, maledictions of two boatmen on 
Americans in general and on frivolous American girls in par- 
ticular. 

A short row and at last — Italian terra firma. Felice notte! 
Through the custom house — past some sleepy officials and out 
into a broad piazza where dozens of cabmen met us with 
vociferous welcome to Naples in volley of Neapolitan patois, 
French jargon, and broken English, combined with great crack- 
ing of whips and jingling of bells with which Neapolitan horses 
are bravely bedecked. 

We took carriage with a debonair young jehu and away we 
dashed, for though Neapolitan horses may be small they are full 
of spirit and speed — all those who vow nothing ever dashes in 
Italy except mountain torrents should but try our cocchiere of 
to-night. First to cable Father — Mamma is ever punctilious 
you know, on that point, the first thing we are landed and had 
F., Lieutenant B. and several others running through a large 
handsome galleria until they finally dragged a sad-eyed man 
out of a neighboring cafe who could send the message. Ma che! 
but it was unusual his services were required at that hour of 
night, he apologized with profuse gesticulation. Still more 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 9 

unusual length of message the helV signora wished to send! 

Though it was past eleven there were people everywhere — 
'tis said Italians never sleep. In the cafes many playing at 
cards and slowly sipping coffee or Vermouth, and on the streets 
throngs of picturesque brown-eyed Neapolitans of the lower 
class as well as many of the better classes which alas ! are so 
much alike all over the world. But here this class too seemed 
made picturesque by dashing soldiers in rakish, green cock-feath- 
ered hats, and here and there officers magnificent in clanging 
scabbards and light gray-blue uniform — the cape thrown back 
to show the scarlet facing. Que j'aime les militaires! 

Tenente B. suggested coffee — that he might prove to us all 
Italians did not make it after manner of this Italian steamer 
on which we have crossed! F. knew a little cafe not far away 
where he said he often went and as we drove up " American 
Cocktails/' emblazoned on the window, caught our eye with its 
bold English — perhaps this explains why F. goes there often ! 
Several of the officers in the gray and scarlet and gold lace were 
in here — all saluting Tenente B. with deference, for though he is 
so young and boyish, he wears the Honor Legion ribbon. A 
tiny thing, yet a ribbon that can never be purchased, except 
with bravery under fire. Tenente B. won his in Africa while but 
a boy. To-night was the first time he had donned his uniform 
since leaving New York and he himself was quite splendid, even 
though the Royal Navy uniforms are not the gray and scarlet 
which makes one lose their heart to cavalry officers. F. sug- 
gested that one of the gray and scarlet capes wouldn't look 
half badly on me, an idea which struck Tenente B. as quite the 
thing. He has a brother, a cavalry officer and wants to get me 
one of the capes — if madame, my mother, will permit. I pray 
she will, though F. looked rather dark at having his suggestion so 
quickly picked up by another. 

From the cafe, to the hotel in Parco Margherita, Our suite 
is charming with glorious view of the bay and all points. Yet 
mamma made sure of steam heat before she looked for the views, 
though a scaldino burning charcoal would seem far more in keep- 
ing with this Old World Naples — surely more picturesque than 
radiators. 

From here we drove and drove and they pointed out this and 



10 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

that of which I can't remember half — but ah, how I love Na- 
ples ! Little I realized she could be so marvelously beautiful. 
We did the drive along the sea several times — an elegant ave- 
nue and fashionable promenade. F. bought me a large mass of 
pink roses and Lieutenant B. carnations for mamma — these Ital- 
ians you know have a charming way of never neglecting madame 
la mere. In fact vnth them a girl really takes secondary place 
— at least I seem to have found it so.v Perhaps because mam- 
mina mia is so very unlike the formidable Italian dowager which 
novels paint. 

During the crossing Tenente B. has mentioned the Neapoli- 
tan ice-cream — said to be the mother of all ice-cream, you 
know. So before we came back on board we went to another 
cafe, Gambrinus, for supper with the true gelato napolitano. 
Truly delicious, and though Naples gave her knowledge of ice- 
cream to the world some five hundred years ago, she must have 
retained through these centuries, the choicest of all receipts for 
herself. F. thinks they use honey in it, and that perhaps is the 
secret, since the honey in this land of a million flowers must be 
ambrosial itself — at least this gelato is fit for the gods, and 
sirens, too. 

F. is returning to Rome early this morning — promising to be 
back Sunday. We insisted on leaving him at his hotel since 
two o'clock is quite late enough for one who must catch an early 
express — 'tis said that although this is the land of adagio, 
trains mysteriously manage somehow to leave and arrive on time. 
We rowed back to the steamer with a little Neapolitan fellow 
for boatman whoi said with air of one giving tremendous compli- 
ment, " Veery nice America ladies! Shiddoo! " Lieutenant B. 
apologized for his young countryman's manners — said the ra- 
gazzini pick up words from tourists, never knowing what they 
mean and use them on all occasions ! 

But what will you } We are in Naples — Naples where life 
is one continual glad, gay festa and one talks simply for sheer love 
of making noise. Just as those forestieri come and write their 
books from sheer love of| her beauty, even though they know full 
well words can in no smallestj measure give idea of this adorable 
Napoli — this bewitching City of the Siren, full of enchanting 
secrets and wondrous mysteries. 



" I had not been there since 186Jf., hut when I woke up the 
morning after my arrival, and heard the chickens cackling in 
the Castel dell' Ovo, and the donkeys braying, and the cab-driv- 
ers quarreling, and the cries of the street vendors, and the dogs 
harking, and the children wailing, and their mothers scolding, and 
the clatter of wheels and hoofs and feet, and all that mighty 
harmony of the joyful Neapolitan noises, it seemed to me that 
it Was the first morning after my first arrival and I was still only 
twenty-seven years old.'* 

— W. D. HowELLs (1908) 



* •*• 



^ TO M. 

Napoli, Saturday, November — 

AH, the magic of this mysterious old city of the Siren! 
Mysterious charm of the land that holds you fast — like 
a siren's embrace, no doubt ! How can I write you in sensible 
comprehensible English when very thought of gold sun, or blue 
sky, or pellucid air is enough to send one into rhapsodies? Yet 
I must entreat my pen to remember you are far away in that 
ochre-tinted America and will believe me quite gone mad do I 
send the rhapsodical pages my brain sings. There's something 
in the very air here that makes judgment drunk, you know, and 
one goes so beauty-mad 'tis said there is cure only in rushing off 
to Rome and doing three galleries and ten churches in a morn- 
ing. 

But no Rome for us for many a week and in this glad, gay City 
of Sweet-Do-Nothing, Vivete Lieti (live joyously) shall be our 
motto just as it was motto of that most charming Beatrice 
d'Este who grew up under these Neapolitan skies you know, and 
later carried Southern sunshine and joyous spell of these siren 
shores to Lodovico Sforza's somber northern court when she 
became bride of II Mora. But this, you will cry, is still rhap- 
sody ! But what can I say } For we are in Italy I entreat you to 
remember ! 

IX 



12 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

I was up early^ spite the fact that bells were already ring- 
ing for Lauds at break of day when my pen last ceased scrib- 
bling rhapsodies over first Italian night to you. Yet who could 
sleep the first morning in glad, golden N'apoli? with their 
steamer riding the sapphire of the bay, her decks o'erlooking 
the great bustling port of Parthenope where dark-eyed, sun- 
scorched people were long ago engaged in thousand mysterious 
pursuits. The noise of Naples alone would wake one. Tin- 
tinnabulations incessant ! Cries and calls mysterious ! For the 
great, loudly murmuring Naples of five hundred thousand — 
and who knows how many more } — sun-scorched souls has noth- 
ing to-day in common with those dilapidated little cities of long 
ago which slumber peacefully on these same Tyrrhenian shores, 
dreaming of the days when they furnished men and gold for 
the Crusades and had navies second to none on earth. Naples 
sits by the sea, still a Queen. Great white city, yet never glar- 
ing, for the white has borrowed gold from the sun and a thou- 
sand shades of blue from the sky and sea, and warm tones from 
the roses which run riot over her garden walls. There are 
shades of purple, too — purple of deep mysteries which lurk 
behind old palazzi courtyards and in the steep gradients which 
lead up from the port somewhere into the blue heavens above. 
Shadowy stair-streets in which Camorra whispers its dark se- 
crets, though safe to say cammorristi have never yet reached 
Heaven by climbing these stairways of Napoli! 

Tenente B. and I — chatting of last night ashore, but mostly 
of the coming duel — had our atrocious coffee together for last 
time while, indifferent to sapphire sky and sea, mamma still 
slept — dreaming no doubt of sirens and tritons who once dwelt 
here — appearing long after the hour we had ordered our jehu 
of last night to come for us. And to say addio to a man, who, 
before we should see him again, must play a serious duel, is a 
something so difficult even the glad joy which Napoli held out, 
could not make easy — at least not when the man is as charm- 
ing as Tenente B ! But of the duel, more to you another time. 

For certainty I intend no further rhapsody and omit bravely 
all details of the mad dash through the picturesque old streets 
to our hotel, together with our arrival and the gold laced portier 
who made profound obeisances at our each step. Least of all 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING IS 

would I dare mention the adorable maid Benedetta, with the 
laugh like a silver bell, whom they gave us to unpack our bags 
and boxes, lest you yourself be winging your way into these 
siren waters, 

I skip it all and tell you rather of something quite prosaic — 
a mere man! He having appeared upon the scene while we 
were at lunch bearing with him a hurried note of introduction 
from F. At first glance we thought he must be French — not 
so prosaic after all you see ! But as he crossed the room to meet 
us we recognized at once that charming indefinite something 
which is peculiar, in all the world, only to you American men. 
He proves to be very much of an American — a friend of F.'s at 
Princeton. An artist and now at work at Capri — that is, he 
says, when F. is not coaxing him over to Napoli or up to Rome. 
He wanted to do anything to be of service and said F. suggested 
his taking us to the theater to-night to hear a new opera which 
Neapolitans have gone quite mad over. 

We had so many letters to write for the next fast Cherbourg 
mail that we foolishly refused Mr. T.'s invitation for the after- 
noon corso. But after he had left, the sound of gay life out- 
side and tempting cabstand in front the Hotel proved too much. 
The very idea that anyone would prefer for moment to remain 
at home and write letters, the first day under Italian skies, 
struck us as decidedly silly. We were not long in having a cab 
called and dashed off at breakneck speed with a little bare- 
footed, devil-may-care, ragazzo, running alongside turning hand- 
springs almost under the wheels. I tossed him some soldi, 
calling " benissimo! '* in my best Italian. Quick as a flash he 
was joined in his dare-devil pursuit of our carriage by some 
half-dozen or more, equally as ragged and picturesque little 
gamins, — each with face as round and bronzed as their own 
olives and all performing wonderful stunts of agility until we 
reached the crowded shopping district where the streets are so 
narrow that there is little more than room for the two streams 
of carriages. 

The crooked, crowded old street with quaint, picturesque 
bridge crossing it, is the Chiaia, and here the sidewalk falls 
off in places into the street and pedestrians must, like the 
smiling, debonair flower-vendors, dart among the carriages and 



14 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

make their way as best they can. From there we turned into 
the famous Via Toledo — black with people and its two un- 
broken lines of equipages. 'Tis said no city in the world of 
proportionate size has so many carriages as Naples and one 
might well believe it from the thousands we saw this afternoon. 
The sedately moving columns of the corso, served as perfect 
background for the vociferating, fascinating life of the street 
with its tiny shops and street vendors selling everything under 
the sun — from flowers to suspenders, oranges to amulets 
against the Evil Eye. Color and picturesque life everywhere! 
Tiny cross streets, some barely six feet in width, cut like threads 
through the tall many-balconied buildings, giving wonderful 
glimpses of the poorer people — always so much more interest- 
ing and picturesque than the better classes. Even officers in 
clanging swords and magnificent uniforms fail completely in 
effect when compared to debonair flower vendors, or lazzaroni, — 
the picturesque Neapolitans who live with Buon Dio*s turquoise 
sky for their roof, basking in kind warm sunshine, dreaming 
their dreams. 

We drove, making the corso on the Toledo, back and forth 
twice — 'tis called the Broadway of Napoli. But no Broadway 
could be so full of vivid life and color and noise — a great 
midway ! Gay crowds everywhere — Confusion ! Clamor ! 
Shouts! Song! Vociferation! Pandempnium! Where else 
could one be in all the wide world except in Naples? For just 
as there is no city which holds so much silence as Venice, so to 
the contrary this Napoli — teeming to very brim with irrepres- 
sible gay life. 

And deep mysteries too. For in these narrow by-ways of 
this ruddy old city, there are hidden mysteries of ancient cen- 
turies — Old World mysteries, unfathomable forever. An air 
of subtle mystery broods somehow over all the city, behind the 
front of each old palazzo with its many green shuttered win- 
dows and haphazardly placed balconies; and off in the near 
distance, Vesuvius, omnipresent, dominating all Napoli, broods 
over the whole city as well as over little coast villages which 
lie like mysterious white fleets anchored on the sapphire sea. 
The whole land seems full of mystery — but ready I fancy to 
laugh in your face should you attempt fathoming too deep. 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 15 

Yet in spite all the picturesque life and mystery^ the shops 
managed to capture us with their windows — some full of 
nothing but gloves^ others with nothing but coral. Coral and 
gloves ! gloves and coral^ everywhere ! But even in the shops 
there are mysterious rites of bargaining to be gone through with, 
since, as Mark Twain says, one must never pay the price first 
asked in Italy, lest the shop-keeper have remorse until his dying 
day of not asking more! 

I bought a long pair of gloves for only six francs — quite 
as cheap as one could in Paris. At first the smiling god of a 
shop-keeper asked ten, but I, plunging immediately into the 
mysterious spirit of bargaining, offered five, with all sangfroid 
of a Neapolitan born. " Ah, but signorina! " he murmured with 
injured mien and gestures wonderful. I offered five again! He 
fell to nine! I made motion to leave the shop. He fell to 
eight and a half! Then to eight! Although la signorina, if 
she took the gloves at that price would be, ^vithout doubt, cause 
of his losing his position — alas, he was but a clerk ! I really 
did not know what gloves of sixteen buttons were worth here, 
so after this last dire statement I came up to six francs with 
gracious magnanimity. At which he beat his breast tragically! 
I, heartless American, laughed outright and gave eloquent Italian 
shrug. At which he quickly fell to seven though with gesture 
far more expressively eloquent than mine. I, however, boldly 
refused to be won and with eyes on the coral shop just across 
the street, again turned toward the door. Yet I had gone but 
a step before he was wrapping up the gloves and smiling in 
manner which said plainly they were mine for six francs and 
neither was he heartbroken over his profit. He brought them 
out to the cab, presented his card to mamma with more smiles 
and gesticulation, begging we would favor him with all our 
trade — perhaps after all, I had not been so clever a bar- 
gainer ! 

Still if only we had not stopped to buy, or rather to bargain 
for those gloves, we might have seen Tenente B. again. We 
found a note from him when we reached home, saying he had 
found the steamer on which he intended sailing early in the 
day to be so slow a vessel he decided to leave this evening by 
rail and had come up to the hotel hoping to find us in and 



16 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

take us out for tea. He waited some time it seems and has 
had a basket of exquisite roses sent in to me with charming 
wishes that my Italian days may be as b^^autiful as Italian 
flowers. 

He is full of remorse that I should have learned of his duel 
— fears that it has made a dark beginning for these my first 
Italian days. Is it, I wonder, because of this duel which must 
be fought, that Naples seems to me so full of mystery — so 
brooding with secrets. 



* And the joy which only Italy can give was strong within 
my soul/' i 

— Margaret Symonds 



4* * 



TO M. 



Naples, Sunday, November — 

WE'VE just finished coffee up here in our sitting-room 
with the long windows leading out to the little balconies 
thrown wide open to let in this glorious gold of Neapolitan sun- 
shine in which all the city lies basking this Sunday morning — 
sparkling like some exquisite bibelot in jewel case lined with 
sapphire blue. 

The view from our rooms is superb — ravissantel eboulis- 
sante! In the distance somber Vesuvius, and the already snow- 
tipped Apennines and little coast villages where the houses 
gleam like rare marble in the sunlight. And ahead, serene in 
azure amplitude, the splendor of the shimmering sea, the sap- 
phire water scintillating under million golden sunflashes and 
curving great arms as though to embrace all travelers who enter 
Italy by Southern route — an embrace which, siren-like, 'tis 
said, she never relinquishes ! At our very feet lies Naples, the 
great sun-scorched old city, rising against the blue sky, buried 
in terraced gardens of orange trees and gardens .of a million 
fiowers. Gardens and gardens — but gardens truly ! In the 
convent garden just below two frati walk in deep meditation. 
But one has left now to ring the great bell, — adding still 
another t6 the hundred and more already pealing and throbbing 
over the city. Bells seem to have throbbed incessantly since 
we reached here, for Naples is all bells you know. Bells and 
bells — convent bells and church bells. How silent must the 
great city be when on Holy Thursday all have gone to Rome, 
where in cupola of St. Paul's all bells of the world meet together. 

We had a delightful evening at Teatro Mercadante last night. 

There were two operas given — the first, " A ve Maria " is quite 

17 



18 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 



1 



new. The tenor, I thought as handsome as his voice was 
splendid, otherwise the actors seemed rather crude — especially 
the chorus which here in Italy is always chosen from the peas- 
antry. Yet everyone on the stage had good voice — more than 
can often be said in America even though Mr. Hammerstein 
does coax over all the best Italian artists with American gold. 
The new opera evidently pleases the Neapolitans well — shouts 
of hrava and bravissima filling the theater. Applause so 
vehement that not only the actors were obliged to come out, 
but director of the orchestra; and still not satisfied, the music- 
mad people insisted on seeing the writer herself — a young 
girl, Emilia Gubitosi. She was bella as well as giovane and 
much embarrassed at the loud cries of '' Bis! Bis! '* from the 
men. The women here never clap nor allow themselves to show 
approval. I, however, applauded her valiantly — all things 
being permissible you know, under plea '' c*est une jeune file 
dmericane! " 

We had a box near the stage in second tier — mysteriously 
more desirable here than lower tier box. The house was well 
filled since the Mercandante is used for the best opera till San 
Carlos opens on festa of Santo Stefano — December 26th, 
traditional date for opening all theaters throughout Italy. 

After the opera we went to Gambrinus again for supper, — 
with some more of this delicious gelato napolitano and Lacrimae 
Christi (Tears of Christ) wine — made in the famous old vine- 
yards on side of Vesuvius. 

Mr. T. says almost each Italian city has its Cafe Gambrinus 
— the name supposed to be derived from Jan 1st or primus, a 
mythical Flemish King, the reputed inventor of beer. This 
being a beverage with which all these Italian cafes must be 
well stocked, if they are able to supply all these rotund German 
tourists whom one sees at every turn. Their season of wander- 
jarh seems to have begun earlier than ever this year — or is 
there no special season for those Germans with Goethe's 

" Kennst du das Land, wo die Citronen blUh'nf '* 

ringing in their ears? Probably not; for there are hundreds 
here already — just at the very time when we supposed Naples 
would be least overrun with foreigners. German men with 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 19 

time to commit all sorts of gastronomic feats in spite their mad 
rush and florid actions. German women of hemispherical waist 
lines with the omnipresent carpet bag and the equally omni- 
present skirts which can on a moment's notice be made long or 
short by some means mysterious. Ah_, these terrible Tedesci! 
I understand already why Italians hate Wagner. 



Oh, Italy, how beautiful thou art! " 

— Rogers 



* * 



TO M. 

Napoli, Monday, November — 

WE are here on one of our balconies — content, like 
Naples herself, to simply bask in radiance of this glad 
gold sun, and under these limpid blue heavens. Spread out 
before us is this majestic panorama which no pen nor brush 
has ever been able to portray. Beauty and loveliness exalted 
to the nth power! Smiling land. Laughing sky. Was it 
Mrs. Browning who wrote of Italy — 

" Woman-country, wooed not wed, 
Loved all the more by earth's male lands." ^ 

'Tis said Americans should never have first sight of Italy 
but in summer — that one who has not seen this Italia in her 
summer glory has not seen the half of her beauty. But it 
seems quite incredible to us that this Naples be more perfect 
than we have found her in these first few days. As full of 
overwhelming beauty, as a Neapolitan tavern of wine. 

We spent a charming afternoon yesterday. F. came down 
from Rome on the morning express and with Mr. T. drove up 
soon after lunch in his new machine — a splendid Renault. 
And as Dumas advised for Sicily — " in heaven's name take a 
speronara! '* so F. advises a motor car for Italy. He himself 
has had no end of pleasure with each of the cars he has had 
over here though 'tis said in this land of dolce far niente, when- 
ever there are urgent repairs to be made it is sure to be festa 
on which no one will lift finger for love or lire! — a state of 
affairs maddening to energetic Americans. But F. has a happy 
spirit which is seldom ruffled and gets along famously with 
these people — is molto simpatico I can readily understand. 

We went down to the Villa Nazionale first, where hundreds 

20 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 21 

of Neapolitans had gathered to promenade in the enchantingly 
beautiful gardens laid out along the sea. The situation is divine 
both for Villa and the splendid Via Caracciolo, the drive which 
flanks gardens on the water side — named, so Lieutenant B. said 
Friday night, for the brave Admiral Caracciolo who was so 
atrociously treated by Nelson and condemned to be hanged from 
spar of a Neapolitan vessel. 

On the road to Posilipo the picturesque old Palazzo di Donn' 
Anna seemed a more noble old ruin by daylight of yesterday 
than in moonlight as we passed Friday — due you would say, 
to the fact I was much more interested in the Marine Hospital 
nearby where Tenente B. was once ill for a long time. To-day 
though, the old palace seemed wonderfully impressive. A 
crumbly, wave-washed, ghost-haunted looking old place — one 
where you can almost see a ghost peering out a window in the 
daytime. We found it hard to believe it is now used as a 
Hotel-Pensione and frequented by tourists from here and there 
who would rather live in picturesque, old-world atmosphere of 
a deserted palace, climb long flights of stairs and warm their 
fingers over a scaldino, than put up at a modern hotel with 
steam heat and a lift. Mr. T. has an artist friend from Paris 
with charming suite and wonderful studio in one of the wings 
and is to take us down to tea some afternoon. F. says we 
must be sure and choose some stormy day when the waves are 
dashing madly against the walls, since then with the wind 
sweeping through the corridors, such ghostly moans and such 
stealthy footsteps will be heard that even if one does not come 
face to face with Donn' Anna herself, one has such poignant 
fear, such blood-curdling fright, one would readily vow they 
had seen her. Indeed they say that the fisher-folk who live 
around there, have seen her ghost countless times as she steals 
back to revisit her palace which — unhappy woman ! — she did 
not live to inhabit. 

The villas along the water front all the way out to Posilipo 
are full of charm and exquisitely situated. Little cafes, scat- 
tered here and there, must be enticing places in the warmer 
weather when sea-bathing is popular and all Napoli, that is not 
gone on villeggiatura, flocks out there to be fanned by sea 
breezes and linger over an ice. 



22 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

From Posilipo we swung around to Pozzuoli — a superb 
drive with a lovely view of Ischia^ — 

" Summer Isle of Eden^ lying in dark purple spheres of sea — " 

And Procida — island of pretty women and good wine — so 
F. says. We mean to visit both some time soon. If we can 
tear ourselves away long enough from this alluring Napoli! 

Pozzuoli is a very ancient place. Indeed we only had 
glimpses of it as the streets, so old and narrow and cobble- 
stoned, seemed taxed to their utmost capacity to hold all the! 
pigs and chickens which ran about wild and all the pictur- 
esquely dirty bimhi who spied us and begged with pathetic 
brown eyes for soldi. To drive a great machine through the 
streets without murdering a strutting cock or cunning black- 
eyed, gold ear-ringed infant, was feat of engineering which 
even F. declared impossible. So we contented ourselves with a 
sort of circuitous tour and plans for coming again en venture 
or a pied. Besides it would surely have been almost a sacri- 
lege to have run anything so modern as a motor over the remains 
of the famous old Appian way — the very road which was 
once traveled over by St. Paul on way to Rome. 

Here at Pozzuoli the Grecians first gained footing in Italy 
and it was here too, that the Roman aristocracy built palatial 
villas, causing Cicero to call the place a " miniature Rome," 
though the most famous places it seems were situated at Posilipo 
or Baia, since Pozzuoli was not a resort but most important 
city of all Italy. What contrast with Pozzuoli of to-day! 

A drive along thq sea shore brought us to Baia — that ancient 
watering place so famous in old Roman days and still retaining 
wonderful ruins full of material for archaeologists. But 
shades of Tiberius, Caligula, Nero and other old Romans who 
once had splendid villas here have long ago faded away and 
weather-beaten fishermen, without fear of inviting some Em- 
peror's displeasure, cast their nets and hoist their sails — 
idyls of Theocritus being lived again in this twentieth century. 
The Bay of Baia is wonderfully lovely. Yet even though Horace 
declares it unsurpassed and Baedeker, more cautiously, writes 
" perhaps without rival," I, myself, have no intention of rele- 
gating this Bay of Parthenope to second place in my heart. 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 23 

For to me no bay with mariners of Theocritus could ever com- 
pare with this where vessels of all kinds and all nations steal 
swiftly into its liquid turquoise^ drawn seemingly inside its 
great curving arms by some subtle lure of the divine Parthenope. 
At Baia it is said, not even the pastoral fishermen now hear 
the call of the sirens among the rocky coves. Parthenope of 
Naples alone remains. Though true it is that even Parthenope 
the divine, once had powerful rival in that marvelous sibyl of 
Cumae, just beyond Baia. But her vision no doubt was long 
ago dimmed with much gazing into the future, her voice worn 
out in pronouncing her sibylline oracles. 

We drove inside the Villa when we reached the city — j ust 
in time to hear part of Verdi's glorious '^ Trovatore '* given by 
the large military band. The Villa — no one ever stops to say 
Villa Nazionale — was teeming with Italian vivacity. All 
Napoli seemed to be there enjoying the splendid, sunshiny 
Sunday. Most of the aristocrats en voiture and other classes 
strolling here and there. Debonair young counts, " without a 
penny to count," very likely ! but brave in boutonnieresj girls, 
who although evidently belonged to the bourgeois, were care- 
fully tagged by duenna; lots of small children, dressed ex- 
quisitely in wonderful lace and fine needle-work and accom- 
panied by picturesque nurse-maids in gay costume with queer 
elaborate head-dress; soldiers in preposterous cock- feathered 
hats; officers with clanging swords which seemed likely to trip 
them up; priests and friars sprinkled in here and there in black 
gowns and brown; vendors with gorgeous flowers and vendors 
with amulets against the Evil Eye — infinite picturesque ! 

Yet we did not stop long in the Villa, enchanting though it 
is, but joined the long stream of carriages which made the 
corso along the sea drive, a sedately moving column of splendid 
turnouts. The nohili come here every pleasant afternoon, es- 
pecially on Sundays, to drive back and forth from two or three 
o'clock during winter, till when all the rainbows meet together 
at hour called sunset here in Italy — everyone vanishes as if 
by magic. F.'s machine, a perfect beauty, drew many glances 
in our direction, but we ourselves, were so taken with the 
marvelous beauty of the great fifteen-mile indented bay with 
its long curving arms of shore, that we had little thought or 
eyes for even Neapolitan nohili. The ladies though, seemed to 



24 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

be quite as handsome as the men. Extremely well gowned 
too. F. says Italian women dress with infinite more hon gout, 
in his eyes^ than Frenchwomen and always very simply for 
the street. F. admires these Italian women immensely — says 
they are clever in a thousand ways, yet ever wise enough to 
seem not clever — a trick we Americans seldom manage. 

We waited for the sunset when everyone broke rank as it 
were, and in a few moments the entire corso had disbanded. 
We vanished for tea at Bertolini's — a charming Hotel hung 
high in the air like our own Aspinwall of Lenox. 

When we came in to dinner I found a note from Tenente B. 

— mailed at Rome. And during the evening while mamma 
and Mr. T. were in deep discussion of the Louvre, I asked F. 
of duels here in Italy, telling him of Tenente B.'s affair — 
knowing well F. can keep a secret as well as you. To my 
surprise he had already surmised what brought Tenente B. 
home ahead of his vessel. Of course F. does not want me to 
think there is danger and made light of the whole duel ques- 
tion — but admitted there were sometimes dangerous duels 
played between ofScers of the army or navy — affaires d' 
honneur no power on earth can stop. Still he thinks we need 
fear little for Tenente B. for while in Washington F. heard 
something of his skill and says he is probably a second Spicca 

— only younger and much better looking! I had never heard 
of Spicca, so F. promised to send this duelist's biography in 
three volumes, and this morning the gargon has brought up with 
our coffee, three of Marion Crawford's novels — " Saracinesca" 
" SanVIlario," and " Don Orsino." Spicca, it seems, is a 
prominent character in these books. I must see if I ' think he 
might be compared to one so altogether charming as Tenente B. 

Marion Crawford has a beautiful villa out at Sorrento and 
I must read some of his many books this winter. He deals with 
Italian life in very good style 'tis said; though one of his 
novels, story of a nun who broke her vows, received much criti- 
cism it seems from his Italian friends and all Catholics in 
general. Our laced and gold-laced portier at this moment an- 
nounces a certain French madame whom Mr. T. recommends 
as she once taught a cousin of his in Paris. Heaven prevent 
that she entirely eclipse me in beauty and gowns, for French 
lessons and duenna I must have and without delay ! 



Beauty is an all-pervading presence." 

— Channing 

4, 4. 



TO G. 

Napoli, December — 

YESTERDAY we " did " the National Museum, where are 
the wonderful excavated treasures which, with the splen- 
did Farnese collection make this Museum one of the finest in 
the world. Such wealth of art is there, that it is impossible 
to give you. in a letter but little idea of this priceless aggrega- 
tion of masterpieces. Elegant sarcophagi; exquisite mosaics, 
and superb collection of ancient frescoes from Pompeii, Her- 
culaneum and other buried cities. The Farnese Flora; the 
wonderful group of the Farnese Bull, and the mighty Farnese 
Hercules — all three famous pieces from the Baths of Cara- 
calla in Rome; the Diana of the Ephesians, against whose wor- 
ship St. Paul preached; and thousands of other splendid works 
of art, of which we have, to-day, but caught a glimpse, — so 
vast this Museum. Indeed the wealth of art here simply ap- 
palls, just as the wealth of history of these shores appalls. 

'Tis not to be wondered at that Peter Paul Rubens so es- 
pecially admired this magnificent Farnese Hercules which was 
then in Rome. Yet one wishes he had not admired it to such 
extent as to paint the Christ, in his " Crucifixion " of the Ant- 
werp Cathedral, with the muscles of a Herculean athlete caus- 
ing the picture to lose so much of its spiritual beauty. Strange 
to say, Mr. T. does not admire this world-famous masterpiece 
so universally loved by artists, and thinks it too tense and 
strained a pose for even a giant at perfect rest, as here in- 
tended. 

The collection of small bronzes is finest of its kind in exist- 
ence, and exceedingly interesting, embracing hundreds of the 
household articles found at Pompeii and other buried cities. 
Handsome money chests, braziers taken from the baths, dining 

25 



26 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

couches and tables, as well as smaller objects, such as keys, 
inkstands, bells, scales, dice, and large collection of dishes and 
toilet articles. 'Tis said the complete life of inhabitants of 
these buried cities might be learned by a few hours' study of 
this collection of Piccoli Bronzi. Even at a glance one realizes 
what love of art entered into each phase of life of the ancient 
Italians, and little wonders that Italians of to-day are such an 
art loving people and ever fond of lingering in our galleries 
in America. 

In another room is wonderful collection of the carbonized 
food — meat, olives, fruits, nuts, bread. The same food which 
we eat here in Napoli to-day. Even the oil is shown, which was 
found in the jars just as it was left in the homes and shops 
that awful day so many centuries ago. 

The exquisite Venus of Capua which although a masterpiece 
in itself, is but a copy of a still greater chef d'ceuvre of the 
fourth century B. C, I thought quite as lovely as Venus of 
Milo in the Louvre (though of course I would confess to no 
one but you that my artistic sense is so deplorably at fault!). 

Among the mosaics, that which held us longest perhaps, was 
the superb representation of Battle of Alexander — found in 
the handsome House of the Faun of which I wrote you after 
our trip to Pompeii. The Dancing Faun marking time by 
snapping his fingers, which was likewise taken from this sumptu- 
ous residence, giving the house its name, is also here — one of j 
the most admired of the many statuettes. 

I went into ecstasies over the ancient j ewelry — wonderful 
gold bracelets, necklaces, rings, ear-rings, chains of all sizes 
and lengths. I fancy even most masculine of Pompeiian suf-^j 
fragettes could not resist appeal of these exquisitely wrought 
ornaments. Pompeiian suffragettes ! you exclaim. But surely 
— yes ! For while there, did we not see among the political 
posters, discovered on the walls of the buildings, recommending 
some certain candidate for the coming election, one signed 
boldly by two women ! 1 1 

There is a fine armed statue of tyrant Caligula, found in*' 
bed of the Liris. Statues of Caligula are very rare you know, 
since they were practically all destroyed after his death — so 
intense the hatred for this Emperor. 



I 






CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 27 

And among the noble old Greeks was head of Socrates, par- 
ticularly interesting with the inscription from Plato — "I am 
and always have been one of those natures which must be 
guided by reason, whatever the reason may be, which upon 
reflection, appears to me to be best." He, in spite stony 
stare, looks quite as wise as his inscription and apparently not 
at all concerned in the tourists who rush past him. To the 
contrary of some of the old Roman Emperors who seem to be 
vitally interested in each person who files past — trait of life 
no doubt which they still retain. 

You would dearly love to linger in these immense halls so 
filled with their treasures of antiquity. I dare say this old 
Museum and the Naples Aquarium, considered finest of the 
whole world, would see much more of you, were you only here, 
than these streets of Napoli which to us are so attractive with 
their crowds of vivacious people and alluring coral shops. 

Marvelous splashes of coral at every turn! We bought some 
lovely pieces to send away for Christmas yesterday. I greatly 
admired a splendid set in one the aristocratic Toledo shops — 
necklace, ear-rings, bracelet, and ring, wrought in gold of 
Etruscan design and embellished with corals of exquisite love- 
liness — a set which, were you only here, might perhaps be 



mine 



And by the way, do you know, I wonder, that the song, 
" Yankee Doodle Dandy " is taken in part from an old Neapol- 
itan song, sung by those debonair young merchants who brought 
coral into Naples from the little Vesuvian coast villages — rid- 
ing on Campanian ponies and sticking a feather in their cap 
which they gayly called macaroni ! Every Spring from the swarm- 
ing, sun-scorched coast towns lying beyond Naples, large fleets 
of boats leave for the coral-fisheries off coast of Sicily and 
Africa, returning in late fall when the coral is sorted and sold 
to Neapolitan merchants — thus the Yankees have their song. 

Coral however, was not our greatest extravagance yesterday 
afternoon. The morning spent among so much art made us wild 
to possess for ourselves, so with Mr. T. to advise and F. to bar- 
gain, we bought bronze copies of two favorite masterpieces of 
the Museum — a Mercury Reposing, '* si jeune, si naif** and 
the so-called Narcissus, 



28 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

" Who gazed into the stream's deep recess 
And died of his own dear loveliness." 

There is a fine large library and gallery in the Museum 
also — the latter, however, now being rearranged and not open 
to the public. But Mr. T. thinks he will be able to obtain 
permesso for us to go in some day soon. There are wonderful 
pictures by Botticelli, Raphael, Titian, Correggio, Reni and 
others equally as famous and while of course the gallery is not 
to be compared in the same breath with those of Rome and 
Florence, still with the work of such masters as these, it is cer- 
tainly worth the trouble of asking permesso, even though one 
has to go through yards and yards of red tape — must even 
give their maternal grandmother's maiden name before matters 
be arranged ! 

Gabriele Rossetti, father of Christina whose poems you so 
admire, once held, by the way, appointment in this Naples 
Museum, coming here from his Abruzzi mountains and plung- 
ing into the gay life of Napoli — improvising with skill which 
captivated even these critical Neapolitans. On our return from 
the Museum yesterday we had breakfast in the old Cafe 
d'ltalia where Rossetti, though in the government employ, burst 
out in his famous improvisation, " Sire, che attendi piu? " with 
such splendid power that the sonnet was never forgotten — nor 
forgiven by the Bourbons. 'Twas not long after that his arrest 
was ordered and he was hidden by friends and hurried out of 
the port to Malta. Then later he arrived at the cold, foggy 
English shores — never to see again his beloved Abruzzi moun- 
tains or this sunny Napoli. Nor indeed any glimpse of Italy 
or Italian sky. We, reveling in this marvelous gold of Neapol- 
itan sunshine do not wonder in the least that he spoke of Lon- 
don — " che notte hruna, brunaj senza stella, e senza lume!" 
and as the years sped on, and he grew old, still so far from 
home, cried, " Salve, del d'ltalia hella! " 

This Neapolitan sunshine is of tremendous warmth and fire 
— sufficient one might imagine, to make an ardent improvisatore 
of even a rotund German! The sun, the sky, the moon, even 
the very stars have wonderful power and brilliancy in this 
warm South. You remember even Hawthorne confessed the 



I 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 29 

Italian sky to be bluer and brighter than our own, graciously 
admitted it was " more than mere daylight — the magic of 
moonlight is somehow mixed with it." And so it truly seems — 
daylight borrows of the magic of Italian moonlight and night 
borrows brilliancy of the sun for her stars. Nights here are 
marvels of divine loveliness. But after all, 'tis the dashing, 
indomitable sunlight which pleases me the more, and like the 
picturesque poor I would be always out-doors. 

Here in this smiling, sunny land 'tis the out-door life which 
is so full of picturesque and interest. Everything happens 
out of doors you know. Infinite picturesque everywhere! Pic- 
turesque lurking at every turn! Picturesque little by-ways 
where for only a few moments at mid-day the sunlight descends 
to shot the shadows — so narrow are they. Picturesque old gar- 
dens with weather-beaten marbles and orange and lemon trees 
embalming air. Picturesque old convents with large, resonant 
bells pealing out all hours of day and night. Ragged himbi — 
awfully dirty, yet all the more picturesque! Picturesque 
envelops the whole city. An|d beauty, like the picturesque, 
is everywhere. 



Dost know the land of lemon- flowers, 
Of dusky gold'-fleched orange bowers'? 
The breath of the azure sky scarce heaves 
The myrtle and high laurel leaves. 
Dost know it well? 
Oh, there, 'tis there 
Together, dear one, we must fare.** 

" MiGNON *' — Goethe 



TO M. 

Naples^ December — 

LAST night we were at Teatro Fiorentini, the oldest play- 
house in Napoli, situated in one of the many little laby- 
rinthine by-ways off Via Toledo — so old and narrow that those 
going to the theater on foot must crowd close to the wall or 
dart in doorways when carriages or cabs pass. Since of course 
there is no room for sidewalks in the tiny, tortuous old 
streets of Naples. Here on even the sunniest of days, one still 
finds all the dampness and darkness of long centuries, and going 
to the theater through these tiny Neapolitan streets, where the 
greatest light comes from the flickering oil lamp burning before 
Our Lady, is like fantastic overture to the very play. Teatro 
Fiorentini itself, however, is quite modern in interior — five 
tier of elaborate boxes and decorations handsome. So modern 
in fact, that they even have the horrid custom of displaying 
lurid advertisements on the outer stage curtain — a I'americane. 
But here, unlike our custom in America, when leading lady or 
hero, is called out by applause, they still retain the character, 
tragic or otherwise, played when curtain fell, never acknowl- 
edging plaudits in a natural manner. And really this Italian 
custom seems decidedly clever. Here if the curtain is rung 
down on a death, no matter how vehement or prolonged the ap- 
plause may be, the actor never appears again. He is dead, so 

how could he? 

.30 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 31 

After the play of four acts there was comedy of one act. 
They generally give two plays or two operas here in Italy you 
know — the first rather heavy and tragic while the second is 
usually lighter, sending the people out in a happy mood. 

Last night was the first night of Teresa Mariani's appear- 
ance here in " Le Primi Armi " and the boxes were filled with 
handsome toilettes and splendid jewels; these Italian women 
have lovely jewels and wear them regally. Between each act 
men in the boxes, and particularly the men and officers who sit 
in the pit, stand up and with glasses carefully adjusted take 
survey of all women in the house! But they do it so frankly 
one never thinks of rudeness. 

Women, by the way, who sit in the pit do not remove their 
hats — certainly a great improvement over our American cus- 
tom. Though coming out from the theater we met a Mrs. W. 
and two daughters — some very clever English people of our 
hotel, who to our surprise wore only light scarfs over their hair. 
In Italy only the lower class goes without hats and there is 
nothing which makes a woman more conspicuous here in Naples 
than appearing in public hatless. Mrs. W. has spent two win- 
ters in this city, speaks Italian and doubtless knows all about 
Italian customs — especially this to which they attach unusual 
importance. But 'tis said that to the Americans all things are 
permitted and no doubt Mrs. W. thinks same rule should apply 
tc> the English. 

There are no end of strict rules here, each duty having it 
seems, its prescribed formula, and we Americans are constantly 
making mistakes and errors both shocking and amusing to these 
Neapolitans. But we bold Americans have so overrun Europe, 
even most ceremonial of Neapolitans are doubtless becoming 
accustomed to our dare-devil ways, and I fancy, if truth were 
told, find them rather fascinating! since there is absolutely no 
question but that the Italians do like the Americans. Much 
better, it seems, than they do the English. Let the English 
disdain Italian customs and etiquette and they are at once called 
'pazzi — quite madl 

Later. 

F. and Mr. T. interrupted this disquisition on Italian cus- 
toms, mad Englishmen, and dare-devil Americans, by coming in 



32 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

and coaxing us up to San Martino — a beautiful suppressed 
Monastery famous for its magnificent views. We went up by 
cable car from Parco Margherita, — so much like our own 
Lookout Mountain incline that for moment we were horribly 
homesick. But no one in this dolce Napoli can long be sad — 
the whole city seems bubbling over with exuberant spirits. Even 
the brown^ bare-footed, blaek-eyed street gamins who tell you 
they are without food for two days, are convulsed with laughter 
as they tell you and dart off to turn the most agile cart-wheels 
with rapidity bespeaking anything but an unhappy famished 
condition. 

The old Monastery, desecrated by this ruthless Young Italy, 
is now used in connection with the National Museum and holds 
much of interest — pictures, copies of frescoes, mosaics and a 
thousand things of history and beauty. Near the entrance is 
a splendidly decorated barge, presented by the city of Naples 
to Charles III when he took possession of the kingdom. This 
is really an elegant thing with two charming mermaids at prow 
and two equally charming at stern. With its twenty-four 
rowers what dazzling spectacle it must have cut as it skimmed 
through the blue waters of the Bay — a jewel box of gold 
afloat on a sea of sapphire velvet! In another room was a 
sumptuous 17th century State coach, not less like a splendid 
jewel box than the boat and elaborately decorated with alle- 
gories — entirely too elaborately one might think to suit the 
Garibaldi who, in this very coach, made his entrance into 
Naples in 1860. 

In another part of the old Monastery-Museum was a won- 
derful presepio — representation, you know, of the stable hold- 
ing the Infant Jesu and His Mother. This in San Martino, 
is marvelously elaborate with Magi, angels, shepherds, animals 
and dozens and dozens of people (in picturesque Neapolitan 
costume!) — each a perfect little piece in itself and made by 
artists most skilled in this work. 'Tis most wonderful treasure 
of the entire Museum in the eyes of Neapolitans, for though 
they are never so elaborate in detail as this, each Neapolitan 
church, however humble, as well as many of the homes, has its 
presepio at the Christmas season. Already the Toledo booths 
are selling little images of Madonna, tiny wooden mangers hold- 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 33 

ing miniature image of El Gran Piccolino Gesu cradled in 
straw^ cattle too, which kneel in reverence. Magi in magnificent 
robes, shepherds with their pipes looking very much like these 
same dark-eyed Abruzzesi shepherds who come into Naples to- 
day with their pipes such as the shepherds of Theocritus piped, 
to play during the holy season of Advent before the many 
shrines of Our Lady. 

In another Museum chamber was a life-like figure of Padre 
Rocco, the famous Domenican by whose efforts Naples first had 
street- lights. How dark they must have been — those tortuous 
little streets and lanes ! The figure was gowned in the black 
Domenican robe and looked so real as it sat reading that for 
moment I was completely deceived. A cell of one of the Car- 
thusians remained the same as in the days of old when they 
with breviaries passed through the long corridors on way to 
Matins or Vespers in lieu of tourists with odious red guide 
books hastening to the Belvedere. 

For it is the Belvedere which draws the people to-day, rather 
than the noble old San Martino Church in which now there is 
no office said, — no odor of incense, no candles burning, no Sacred 
Host. Here at the chamber called the Belvedere there are the 
balconies all tourists seek, commanding superb views of city and 
surroundings. The great beautiful Naples seething like a 
Titan's caldron — chaos of many-balconied palaszi, narrow, 
tortuous streets, fragrant gardens, winding stairways and 
churches with domes and campanili stretching up to God. The 
sky of wonderful robin's egg blue, making perfect background 
for all the splendid pad boldly proclaiming the Faith of Naples. 
Little white villages scattered along the great curving arms of 
shore lie like flocks of snow-white geese bathing their feet in 
the azure waters of the bay. The bay itself — a great sap- 
phire stone gleaming in the sunlight as huge jewel with a mil- 
lion facets. 

" And yonder, bluest of the isles, 
Calm Capri waits. 
Her sapphire gates 
Beguiling to her bright estates." 

Towering over all reigns Vesuvius, silent, somber and stern, 



34 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

indomitable, overpowering, waving his plume of smoke as 
menacing scepter. Overhead, the marvelous blue cielo — a 
great dome bending down to earth, powerless, no doubt, to re- 
sist this smiling land where beauty and grandeur and overwhelm- 
ing loveliness are all met together. Mr. T. who, by the way, 
is a poet himself, quoted as we stood there on the Belvedere, 
gazing down on the great sun-scorched city, those exquisite 
lines from Shelly — 

" Naples ! thou heart of man which ever pantest 
Naked beneath the lidless eye of Heaven! 
Elysian city, whidh to calm enchantest 
The mutinous air and sea, — they round thee, even 
As sleep round Love, are driven ! 
Metropolis of a ruined paradise 
Long lost, late won, and yet but half regained ! " 

What did Shelly mean I wonder.^ The words hold a thou- 
sand meanings — just as this great Naples has a thousand sides. 
But from the Belvedere there is only one Naples — only one 
meaning to Shelly's words. Marvelous beauty — Elysian city ! 

How the eremitical Carthusians, bound to perpetual solitude, 
must have loved this old Belvedere ! Or did they find all beauty 
in contemplation and religion, so that this matchless panorama 
made no appeal to their ascetic hearts.'* Perhaps, though, some 
sweet boyish monk, by the world forgot, sometimes stole out 
there to look with wistful eyes down on the smiling world he 
had forsworn — chi sa? 

We went into the Church later — just at hour when the con- 
vent bell used to ring for Sext. True, the old Church no longer 
holds its Host and no more Hours are fervently chanted day by 
day, yet the place seems shrouded in hallowed memories, — just 
as Time has shrouded its old paintings in soft hues. I fancy 
not even the staunchest of Protestant tourists would fail to be 
touched by this time-darkened, suppressed Carthusian Church 
slumbering in peace up there on the heights overlooking this 
great teeming city. 

'Tis rich in treasures too, as well as in memories. Splendid 
marbles and frescoes and paintings so wonderfully beautiful 
one mightl think the artists had, like Fra Angelico, never touched 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING S5 

brush until they had first knelt in prayer. The Choir held 
Guido Reni's unfinished " Nativity " — his last picture. " Christ 
Giving the Holy Eucharist to the Apostles/' by that great master 
Ribera, or Spangnoletto as he is so often called here^ is there 
in the Choir also. Wonderful picture. Though not so perfect 
perhaps as his " Descent from the Cross/' which is placed as 
altar-piece in the Tesoro, and very appropriately_, since it was 
here the most precious treasures were kept. And Ribera's 
" Descent from the Cross " is one of the most precious of all 
San Martino treasures. On the ceiling of this Tesoro are the 
famous frescoes^ painted, it is said, by Luca Giordano in his 
seventy-second year in but forty-eight hours ! Indeed, some 
declare it was in but twenty-four hours that this magnificent 
piece of work was done. No wonder they called him " Fa 
Presto! " 

But the wood carvings in the twenty-five stalls of the Choir 
of the laic brothers would doubtless have greater interest for 
you than forty-eight, or even twenty-four hour frescoes. These 
are of walnut wood — the splendid work of hands which were 
oft folded in prayer. Mamma wished you might show them 
to your little fellows in the wood-carving class at the Mission. 
I feel certain that serious-eyed little Italian with whom I spoke 
the day you took us there, will show his talent in something 
truly artistic before he has many lessons this winter. He 
already looks like some tiny, solemn, laic brother, — don't you 
think so ? — as though, even now, he might be deep in mysteries 
of his novitiate. You may have successfully beguiled him into 
your East side mission, but I fear you can never make a 
Churchman of that solemn and wise piccolo. He will accept 
all your lessons in wood-carving, all your gifts of Bibles and 
Prayer Books you choose to bestow, but you will surely find 
him some day, over on 115th Street, serving before the altar in 
that gray stone Church of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Yes, 
really I feel quite sure; and all these clever tricks of wood- 
carving you are teaching, will be applied to adorn some sweet 
altar to Madonna Mary. 

All the carvings of San Martino were done by the laic brothers 
and artistic fellows they surely were for their exquisite work 
is everywhere. Most treasured of all, is the High Altar — in 



36 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

wood, and a beautiful thing. And here too at the High Altar 
is a precious carved Tabernacle with little door of marvelous 
lapis-lazuli — open forever now, as on Good Friday. A large 
desk in the Choir is another splendid piece by one of the laic 
brothers, Bonaventura Presti, who also laid the beautiful marbles 
of the pavement in the Church. 

And by the way, the floor of this Choir has a great hollow 
space underneath it, built so that the voices of the choristers 
might ring clearer and longer — the choral offices used by the 
Carthusians being of both excessive length and great beauty. 
The band stand in the Villa is built this way too, and the music 
there is thrown out for great distance. One notices the differ- 
ence in sound even in walking across the Certosa Choir floor. 
How beautifully the solemn service of Matins must have rung 
out up there each night! 

The great Cloisters too seem full of memories of the white- 
robed, ascetic Carthusians. The sixty-four columns of white 
marble are splendid and 'tis doubtless true that an American, — 
even a Vermonter — has no real conception of the beauty and 
elegance of marbles until he has seen these of Italy. Tourists 
were few up at San Martino this morning and we did not find 
it difficult to picture the Carthusians, pacing with silent solemn 
tread around the old Cloister, rosaries in hand; and lay brothers, 
equally silent, working among the graves, where on the balus- 
trades enclosing the ground, grim, hideous skulls of weather- 
beaten marble were placed to remind the Carthusians that 
Death was ever near. 

The old suppressed Monastery had a sweet, peaceful charm, — 
so different from this great bustling, overflowing Naples, that 
full of the charm of its Past and Peace my pen has run on and 
on. Doubtless you're frightfully out of breath when you finish 
all this, and you might refresh yourself with glass of the 
delicious amber-colored Chartreuse such as we had in a pictur- 
esque little wine shop across from the Monastery. Truly the 
Carthusian fathers, though wine and liqueur were forbidden in 
their own coarse fare, knew how to make nectar fit for the gods ! 
This of to-day seemed far superior to any of the Chartreuse 
we buy in America. Was it perhaps, only because our host 
was debonair and dark of eyes, his osteria quite picturesque 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 37 

with bare ground for floor and chickens strutting boldly through 
the rooms^ and a view spread out before him which to admire 
alone was worth a king's ransom? 

It was nearly fifteen o'clock^ as our time runs here in this 
Old World Italy, when we reached the city. We had lingered 
much longer than we intended, wandering about the solemn old 
Charter-House which though suppressed and desecrated, still 
holds the ghosts of frati busy with their carvings, and patres, 
solemn with the great mysteries of cloister life, filing into the 
time-darkened, slumbering Church holding its precious treas- 
ures. And so fascinated am I with the place that I have per- 
suaded them to go again to-morrow and climb the hill just back 
of the Certosa on which stands an imposing old Castle, St. 
Elmo, now harboring within its huge walls some of the most 
noted members of the Camorra — that portentious word which 
is ever whispered here in Napoli. Here on the ramparts of 
this impregnable old fortress is the great gun fired over the city 
daily each noon — jarring the whole San Martino Certosa with 
terrible force. How different from the sound of the old Char- 
ter-House bell which, rich and deep, used to peal out each noon 
with its Angelic Salutation. 

We breakfasted when we reached town in the handsome Gal- 
leria Umherto — nowhere else does one find such artichokes 
fried in oil ! This Galleria, by the way, is a most elegant 
structure, costing 'tis said, about four million dollars — fabulous 
sum to these Neapolitans ! It has form of a gigantic cross with 
immense dome in the center — covered, of course, so that the 
Galleria is always a place of shelter for homeless street gamins 
as well as dashing young nobili and splendidly uniformed of- 
ficers. In here are cafes and alluring shops filled with every- 
thing to tempt tourists — beautiful water-colors of Naples and 
her picturesque people, exquisite corals of a thousand and one 
shades, antique jewelry which once adorned some dark-eyed 
Neapolitan princess, laces of fairy loveliness, wonderful em- 
broideries from Geneva and shops of Parisian creations more 
enticing than we saw even in Paris. There is also a Singer 
Sewing machine shop ! wearing forlorn, deserted air since in 
land noted for its exquisite needlework such a prosaic article 
could hardly expect tp be very popular. The entire Galleria 



38 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

is filled with throngs morning, noon and night, for although 
not in center of the city 'tis the very heart of Neapolitan 
life. All the cafes spill themselves out into midst of this teem- 
ing place with little tables where one may dine if they please 
quite in midst of vivacious crowds, or at least take their coffee 
or an ice while listening to the music. We have gone down 
with F. several evenings to the Cafe- Chant ant. 

Underneath the Gallena is a small theater, Salone Margher- 
ita, where F. says they have zarzulla — vaudeville. Of course 
we Americans see nothing shocking in good vaudeville, yet one 
day as madame and I were going through the Galleria, I hap- 
pened to ask if she ever went there and so horrified her at the 
very suggestion, I have been quite wild to go ever since. While 
at lunch this afternoon, I told F. of madame's astonishing views 
on vaudeville and suggested he take us down to-night, since 
he declares that though the Italians have an idea Salone Mar- 
gherita is decidedly terrible, Americans generally find it decid- 
edly tame. I will leave tliis open so I can tell you how we 
like the place, feeling quite sure it can be not very wicked 
since it bears the name of the beautiful Queen Mother whom 
all Neapolitans adore. 

December — 

Salone Margherita is altogether fascinating with charm- 
ing arrangement in the orchestra of small tables, where one 
may have their coffee, an ice, — anything in fact, while 
watching the performance. A man near us had an elaborate din- 
ner served quite cleverly. There were but few women — Italian 
women of! the better class never attend vaudeville or cafes-chant- 
ants. And F. says perhaps I had better not mention having 
been there to madame lest she refuse to teach and duenna for 
jeune file so wicked as to have found delight within portals of 
Salone Margherita — establishment on which it seems all good 
Italians and Parisians look seriously askance ! But why — 
chi sa? 

The whole world steeped in golden sunshine again to-day — 
so bold and brilliant one might think its purple heat would 
almost warm those icy cold marbles up afc San Martino. We are 
driving there directly after breakfast. I wish you might be 
with us for nowhere else does the Past and Peace meet as in 



II 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 39 

this wonderful old cloister^ slumbering in quiescence, filled even 
yet with fervent prayers and shadowy white-robed Carthusians. 
So beautiful and peaceful it is there, that as Shelley said of the 
spot where Keats and Severn are buried in Rome, " It might 
make one in love with Death to think that one should be buried 
in so sweet a place/' — so too, might San Martino make one 
in love with cloistered life. Yet for me — I think I would 
rather be Friar of earth-brown robe, free to wander over these 
sweet Italian roads where the gold sunshine fills men with song 
to-day, even as in days of the blessed Poverello. 



*' There is a charm 
A certain something in the atmosphere, 
That all men feel, and no man can describe." 

— Longfellow, " Michael Angelo 

* 4? 



TO J. 

Naples^ December — 

YOU ask if I like these Italian people — could one help it 
if they would? I quite love them all from Duca di G., 
he of the wonderful dark eyes and much simpatia, down to this 
old beggar woman^ who in large tinkling ear-rings, sits near 
the hotel under immense umbrella and takes our soldi each time 
we pass, but with such winning manner one could not ignore 
her without feeling the basest of criminals. If you might only 
hear the blessings she calls down upon us from all heaven, I am 
sure, even you, would love her too. Blessings, you know, can 
be purchased for soldi here in Naples. And though you, O 
learned one ! may question their value, still surely you will admit 
beggars must have grateful hearts to invoke blessings in such 
great plenty. 

Truly J., there's a certain subtle something in the atmos- 
phere here in this wonderful, mysterious old Napoli making 
me so in love with everything Neapolitan and Italian that I 
simply adore these black-eyed, ragged, street gamins who drove 
you wild in Rome, and find your " rascally " cabmen charming 
as sun-browned gods ! How strange this spell, was not cast over 
you when you were studying in Florence ! But alas, you were 
forever poring over the mysteries of the divine Dante and 
browsing in the Laurenziana so you had little time for the 
greater joys of prowling through humble streets and lingering 
among dark-eyed, smiling people. Then too, one must remem- 
ber that Florence, the city of Lilies, is not Napoli, the city of 
Divine Parthenope. Surtout, you are a New Englander — a 



I 



40 






CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 41 

race with hearts 'tis said which even this potent spell of Italy 
can seldom fathom. 

Yet F. thinks that attitude known as " certain condescension 
in foreigners " as little seen or felt here in Italy as anywhere 
in the world. Italy ^ — dear^ smiling Italy ! so exuberant with 
spirit of loveliness and beauty, casts such spell of enthusiasm 
over all who come that they are quite powerless but to love 
her and her people. 

Yet, I too, before I reached here, had some sort of vague 
idea I was not to like these people. We read Hawthorne's 
Italian Notes on the steamer coming over — if anything could 
place a damper on Italian enthusiasm, surely it is those New 
England prim and proper Notes ! " Their eyes do not win 
me " — he wrote, you know, or something to that effect, and 
I too, said the same. But how was I to know these Neapolitans 
of Naples had dark soulful eyes which would win over marble 
statue } — were full of grace, simpatia, and beauty. Ah, I 
know you are going to sit down tout de suite and pen me a long 
lecture — I feel quite sure you will never let pass such splendid 
opportunity to admonish, yes, even severely scold, your so very 
improper cousin! 

And by the way, please write in Italian since you know the 
Tuscan so beautifully. I am wildly anxious to learn to speak 
this tongue. A few weeks ago and I was all enthusiastic over 
the French; but even that sounds much too harsh and quite 
imlovely beside this euphonious Italian which is as charming and 
soft as the Spanish we once studied together. " Italian has a 
musical charm. Only in the midst of the Arts and beneath a 
beauteous sky could a language so melodious and highly colored 
have had birth " — thus you remember, wrote your clever Mad- 
ame de Stdel. You adore her and love the Italian language 
so you can find nothing to quarrel with me in this. And please 
appreciate, caro, with what immense tact I turn the subject from 
dangerous topic of Italian people to your favorite theme lan- 
guages ! 

Madame, my French teacher, who is wonderfully skillful in 
Italian as well, now gives me the two, so you see with this, my 
art, and my studies at the Scuola for noble young ladies, where, 
grasie a Dio, I now have only two classes^ I am busy each 



42 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

moment. So pray do not complain if I tell you little of sight- 
seeing for I am pondering over subtle rules of lei and voi and 
whether, at some recitation at the noble school, I shall astound 
the entire class of noble young ladies and our solemn, mourn- 
ful-eyed noble little professor, by boldly declaring San Fran- 
cisco is not the same distance from Nuova York as Florence 
from this adorable Napoli. 

Madame is duenna also you know for this city is quite as 
strict on the chaperone question as though it were in Moham- 
medan country. Unmarried women do* not and may not, accord- 
ing to the mysterious rules of Naples, go out alone even if they 
are well over thirty — or forty either I suppose. But unmar- 
ried women are never over thirty, are they ? 

I can think of no one forty, but I do know of one well over 
thirty — at least madame so declared and chere madame, you 
must know, is wonderfully wise. The Princess S. of one of 
the very old Neapolitan families. Madame often accompanies 
her, as she never goes out alone, strange as it may seem to us 
in woman of her age, and moreover is rather plain compared to 
most of these handsome dark women. Only the other morning 
madame was playing as usual, her role of chaperone, while I 
shopped along the Toledo and Princess S. drove up asking if 
I would permit that she walk with us. Of course I was quite 
willing and we made promenade a pied with madame ever vig- 
ilantly bringing up the rear. Princess S. kept her eyes well 
on the ground, and madame had amusing frankness to say 
she thought I myself looked de tons cotes, entirely too much! 
I see you smile. 

Princess S., by the way, has been very lovely to me and 
speaks such pretty English. 'Tis quite surprising how many 
of these Neapolitans we meet speaking more or less English. 
Some one has said you know, English among the Italians is 
prized as one of the first virtues. 

And the Italians themselves may really think this one of 
their first virtues, but they've a thousand far more adorable 
than speaking English (which alongside of this soft tongue 
spoken in Naples, seems quite too harsh and kin to the German 
to be at all pleasing), and I'm truly grieved that you have such 
wrong idea of these people. I feel sure if you but knew these 






CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 43 

Neapolitans with their kindly ways and ever smiling, yet ever 
pathetic brown eyes you would soon change your mind. For 
just as Italy is land of unsuspected treasures, so are these 
Neapolitans full of unsuspected charms. Do they cheat you 
'tis with such winning grace, you gladly return on the morrow 
to bei cheated once again ! You call them great flatterers, but you 
are quite mistaken, carina! Marion Crawford, who from study 
and long residence here, should know these people well, has said, 
you remember, that aim of Italians is to make life agreeable, 
whereas chief aim of the Teutonic races is to make life profit- 
able. Thus, of course, the Italian easily excels in art of pleas- 
ing, and being quite charmingly agreeable. 

" It is with no premeditated plan, but in mere eagerness to 
please that they lavish expression of affection " — those are 
Madame de StdeVs very words on this subtle art of Italian flat- 
tery. I've spent some ten minutes in looking them up for you, 
angelo mia, trusting you will accept her words even if not mine. 
Only do not misunderstand " expressions of affection " and 
imagine these Neapolitans are making love to me ! I find them 
quite as sensible as American men. Were you other than 
American yourself I might even say I find these Italian rather 
mo7'e sensible of the two — yet as it is how would I dare so 
offend you.'' 

Later. 

I left your letter for the simple reason that after that last 
bold utterance, I dared not continue ! You would be sure to 
dedicate your new novel to M. rather than me — would never 
take me yachting again — in truth I pictured such horrible 
sequences of my rash pen that I called Maria, our pretty new 
maid, and made her go for a walk, much to her inward dis- 
pleasure I'm sure, since she sat on the balcony sewing and 
just across the road two splendid blonde carabinieri were gaz- 
ing up admiringly. I happen to know Maria has strong pen- 
chant for blondes and since my conscience troubled me, I very 
cleverly (and of course quite carelessly) halted along the para- 
pet short distance above the Hotel and as they strolled past, 
bid Maria ask them what weather-beaten old palazzo with win- 
dows and balconies placed in haphazard fashion, it might be 
that stood on the corner. So Maria having elegantly beg-par- 



44 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

doned and formally addressed the splendid fellows with, ** The 
illustrious signorina americana would to know/' et cetera, was 
soon deep in informal chatter of heaven knoweth what not, while 
I, affecting to gaze off over the blue water and down on the 
dazzling white city at my feet, was in reality deep in solving 
the problem of whether to rewrite my letter to you, or send 
it as it stands ! 

But before I came to conclusion it suddenly dawned upon 
me I might be running risk of losing this most divine of 
maids, Maria, did she converse longer with such magnificent 
uniforms so I hastened off up the Corso towards where they 
are building a wonderful new villa in which she and I take 
rapturous interest. She, since the new villa is to be the home 
of the son of the Duke for whose Duchess Maria's friend, with 
the charming name of Antonietta, is maid, while I affect inter- 
est in the mysterious building process itself — so entirely un- 
like our own prosaic American methods. But in truth m,y 
greatest interest lies in the debonair young mason who has 
form of a god and voice of Caruso. Happily Neapolitan build- 
ing methods are worked out on leisurely scale which gives 
ample time for venting forth in song between laying of each 
stone. Each stone being brought up, one by one, and since it 
takes three times as many minutes for the piccolo to fetch them 
up the ladder as it does for mason to lay them, we, lounging 
in the sunshine on the parapet just across, are thrilled with 
bursts of grand opera worthy San Carlos. 

Yet in midst of sublime snatch from '' La Traviata '* this 
morning, I spied the two carahinieri approaching very slowly, 
very decorously, very nonchalantly — nevertheless headed 
straight for Maria. Matters seemed progressing entirely too 
rapid and I regretted having ever had her inquire about the 
old palazzo with its balconies and green shuttered windows set 
on here and there in such jumbled style. But happily, just 
as I was debating whether to move forward or retreat, F. 
rounded the corner in his car, and the day, grazie h Dio, was 
saved. I hurried Maria into the tonneau and we speeded by 
those two debonair blonde Reali Carahinieri at dare-devil rate, 
for I am not at all afraid . of the most infamous member of 
Camorra, but these Carahinieri are entirely too handsome, with 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 45 

their well-waxed mustaches, and stunning, in their scarlet 
faced capes and captivating three cornered hats, to be at all 
safe when one has an Italian maid who is as irresistibly charm- 
ing as she is simpatica. 

Having deposited her safely in the Hotel, F. and I set out 
to follow the road, driving out through the old gate Capuana 
— one of the finest Renaissance gateways of Europe and 
flanked by two watch towers — and driving on and on across 
that part of the country so fertile as to be called, the kitchen 
garden of Naples. Marvelously tended, since love of the 
Neapolitan for the soil is wonderful. 

The day has been warm as Spring — one might think Per- 
sephone had been returned to the world here in December, did 
the wise Neapolitans not tell us that Pluto will surely not allow 
the beautiful maiden to return for at least two months yet. 
In the meantime Ceres but rarely brings her grief down into 
this smiling land of Napoli. Doubtless she has the good sense 
to know her tears for poor Proserpina would be completely 
wasted under this bold Neapolitan sunshine. All the peasants 
were out to-day — some few belated ones hurrying in gay 
frocks and shawls into Naples since this is a gala market-day 
there; others out working in the wonderful gardens, for here in 
this paradise there is one crop after another all the year 
around. There are beautiful vineyards too, as well as fertile 
gardens, and great olive groves, — majestic and glistening in 
the sunshine. Surely the old olives of Tuscany can be no more 
splendid than these of Campania — olive groves seemingly as 
old as this enchanting land itself over which Persephone has 
traveled for who knows how many thousand Printemps? 

Hundreds of birds were singing boisterously in fields and 
along the roadside, as though already welcoming the lovely 
Persephone. Lots of larks, escaped, from the nets spread by 
Englishmen and the French, into this land where the people 
have the heart and bon gout to be more fond of dainty snails 
and slugs and pickled earth-worms than of harmless larks who 
shout their glad songs along the wayside as did the Divine 
Minstrels in the days of St. Francis. 

It was the Poverello wasn't it.^* who loved the crested lark best 
of all his many sisters, the birds; for she, like the Minstrels, 



46 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

is clad in earth-brown robe, and her crest is like the hood of 
Religiosij like them, she is humble too, finding her food by the 
wayside, living far from towns, and ever singing the divine 
praises of God. You may doubt it, caro mio, if you will, but 
F. and I each distinctly heard a lark singing, as she soared up to- 
ward the sun, that verse of St. Francis' great glorious Canticle 
of Creation, in praise of the Sun, our Brother. You know it, 
of course, or are you so spoiled by having written the " best- 
seller " that chants in praise of creation seem of little impor- 
tance.'* The verse to the sun appeals especially here, for if the 
sweet St. Francis wrote with sun of Umbria and Tuscany in 
mind, how much more do his words apply to this wonderful sun 
of Naples ! 

" Praise be to Thee, O Lord, with! all Thy creatures ; 
But especially to my Lord the Sun, our brother, 
Who gives us day, and through whom Thou sbinest ! 
For he is beautiful and radiant with great splendor. 
He is the symbol of Thee, O most Highest ! " 

How splendidly it must have sounded sung by the Friars, of 
earth-colored robes and naked feet, as they journeyed in the 
sunshine over the sweet Italian roads. And again in the winter 
when the Umbrian and Tuscan suns are dim, and snow and ice 
covered the mountains, and wind and wolves howled, still they 
marched ever chanting joyously, indifferent to bitter cold and 
suffering since for them smile of Madonna made winter warmer 
and brighter than any mid-summer sun. Are the sons of St. 
Francis whom we see to-day as ready to sing the mystic love 
and glory of their sweet Lady Poverty as those Divine Min- 
strels of St. Francis — one wonders. Surely the sunshine is 
just as bright, though 'tis said Italian roads have lost much 
their charm and the humble friar who travels by the wayside 
must look lively lest a twentieth century motor bear down upon 
him in his earth-brown robe. 

We lunched at Maddaloni at the Trattoria del Leone — no 
such pretentious hostelry, to be sure, as our dear old Lion Inn 
of Stockbridge, though never at the Red Lion would one find 
such divine fare and such fat flask of flashing Chianti, weighing 
two litres when we sat down but mysteriously vanished into some 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 47 

infinitesimal small weight when we settled our bill. But for that, 
F. must be held to account, not me. For it was the mushrooms 
and " blessed little fowl," as our hostess referred to the 
chicken, which delighted me far more than Chianti. 

As usual my pen has run on and on, though when I started 
this morning, it was with firm intention of writing no more 
than one cinque soldi stamp would carry. Alas, for all good 
intention! I foresee cinque times cinque necessary and you in 
sheer desperation laying aside the new novel for which all 
America is waiting breathless, and turning all your thoughts 
towards the invention of some sort of fountain-pen which will 
have the grace to halt at the end of a regulation letter instead 
of running on and on and on after the manner of one of these 
three hundred and sixty-five day clocks ! 

Of course you are declaring that I'm quite bewitched by this 
adorable dolce Napoli — chi sa? 'Tis said^ you know, that even 
a day here under these limpid southern skies will so intoxicate, 
that one of your staid and proper college professors who came 
to write a book on the archaeology of this section, refused even 
to glance at Pompeii or Herculaneum, but sat basking in the 
amber radiance of this Neapolitan sunshine in the Villa, writing 
mad poetry day after day ! 

True the sunshine hasn't yet beguiled me into improvising, 
but all the same, it may be some one has cast malocchio on me, 
having this deplorable result of making me quite lose my head 
over this idyllic land and adorable brown-eyed people. What 
think you, Eccellenza? > 



'Absence from thee is such as men endure 
Betrveen the glad betrothal and the bride; ** 

" To Italy "' — Robert Underwood Johnson 



^ * 



TO D. 



Naples, December 21st. 

WE too, wish we might bring home one of these Italian ar- 
tist cooks — one as dark and debonair of eyes and as 
clever as your adorable Giovanni, for we, as you, have already 
come to the conclusion there is nothing much better in cuisine 
than this of Italy. Garlic is no longer the bete-noire we 
fancied. No doubt since hotels must cater to English and 
German, French and Russian (by the way we have an elegant 
Russian Princess and suite here for the winter) — all these, as 
well as our own American palates, the proprietors tell their chefs 
to go slow with the garlic and all those queer, fancy herbs we 
see drying in long chains and decorating so many tiny balconies 
at every turn. Of course there's a sameness all over the Con- 
tinent in the table d'hote, still we think the dishes here of 
greater variety, and far more attractively served than in the 
hotels and cafes in other countries. In fact, you know, 'tis 
said that range of dishes in Italian cuisine is much greater 
than with the French who are supposed to be such criterions 
on culinary arts and hold the world's championship. 

And by the way, does Giovanni still make the delectable dish 
of pasta con pomidoro? You may tell him we have tried it at 
all of the best cafes of Naples, but none seem able to use garlic 
so it gives just that suggestion of supreme delicacy such as has 
his. But then, we must remember that Giovanni is a true 
artist a! 

We haven't engaged a chef, but we have something even bet- 
ter, at least far more necessary just at present — an Italian 

maid. For in spite all ethereal loveliness of this poetic land, 

48 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 49 

buttons and hooks were prosaic enough to fall off^ seemingly 
with diabolic persistence to take one's time from something of 
beauty or infinite picturesque. We had begun to think we 
made a great mistake in not bringing Tucker with us again this 
year, when Mr. T. turned into a fairy godfather and found 
this girl — a perfect jewel. 

Mr. T. has her brother with him over at Capri — a splendid, 
swarthy^ broad-shouldered fellow as devoted to Mr. T., F. de- 
clares, as was Giuseppe Marchi to Sir Joshua Reynolds. They 
are Tuscans, which is preferable, as I must avoid for the present 
falling into this Neapolitan dialect — complete language in it- 
self. Maria's Tuscan is quite exquisite. She was raised in a 
convent and is really well educated, so you see it's no wonder 
we call her a precious bijou, especially as she does beautiful 
needlework and is altogether simpaiica, 

I've been going to early Mass with her every morning this 
week. There is a dear, weather-beaten, old Church down the 
Rione dei Mille, not far from here, and it makes these Italian 
days all the sweeter to slip in there along with these dark-eyed 
people who come there morning after morning. Very humble 
people, most of them, but so devout in their devotions that for 
this alone, they would be quite lovable. Swarthy cabmen and 
debonair street vendors ; women, heads covered with gay yellow 
and blue handkerchiefs, who later in the day you will find chat- 
tering away in the most humble side-streets; young girls so 
richly poor that pay of twenty cents a day for bending late 
over embroidery or artificial flower-making seems a veritable 
fortune, and other girls who linger, long after the others have 
gone out into the sunsliine, to confide to Madonna their secrets 
— and sorrows too perhaps. 

Poor madame has been ill for a whole week and mamma so 
often engaged playing bridge with some of these English bridge 
fiends who have entirely taken possession of the winter-garden, 
that even Neapolitan sunshine and skies cannot always coax 
her out, so Maria is pressed into service as duenna as well as 
maid. And a very strict, stern, chaperone she is, for madame 
has had experience with American jeunes filles before, but 
Maria seemingly has idea I'm just from the convent and thinks 
it quite shocking do I dare address the cocher! 'Tis her em- 



50 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

phatic statement each time we start out^ " Have no fear, cara 
signora, — I guard the signorina like a Bambino Gesu! '* 

She always wears a small black lace veil whenever out with 
me — says that it is the proper thing for a maid over here. 
But I can't fancy it — she looks as though she was forever 
starting to see His Holiness. So this morning on our way 
down to Cook's I stopped in a little modista shop of Piazza 
Martiri and bought a black sailor. When she had it on, 
she looked so elegant I was almost j ealous — could you but see 
her you wouldn't wonder! She has glorious purple-black hair 
and immense brown eyes — you know my weakness for bro^vn 
eyes ! Her features are all good and with her splendid figure 
in! a black coat-suit she looks a thousand times better than these 
German tourists rushing around Naples in antiquated chapeaux 
and skirts looped up to tops of their boots or sweeping pave- 
ments. Maria carries herself, like all Italians unless they are 
cripples, with that wonderful regal air and is always much 
stared at by these Neapolitan connoisseurs of beauty. Indeed 
this morning she was almost too frankly admired once she had 
on a hat placing her on a, lady's footing, una vera signorina — 
you know what great importance they attach to the cappello 
here in Italy. 

This little modista at Piazza Martiri — I wonder if you ever 
went there when you were here in Naples? She is another 
bijou, is so eager to please, speaks French, Spanish and a little 
English and things come from her deft fingers with a good 
Frenchy air. Last week she accomplished a coup de main ir- 
resistible in form of a lace muff covered with roses and a 
darling chapeau to match — so sweet I am saving it for the 
gala opening of San Carlos. 

But you would be much amused could you see the dinky little 
muffs so many of these Neapolitan women carry, even on the 
street — concocted by some magic art of a flower or two, a piece 
of ribbon, a bit of lace and a speck of fur, forming a tout 
ensemble half large enough for even one hand ! My muffs this 
winter are perfectly immense and attract no end of attention. 
Often on the street as one walks along, one hears murmurs 
of *' Manicotte grande! " accompanied by looks of positive amaze- 
ment that one signorina should need so large a piece of fur to 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHIXG 51 

warm two hands. "Ma che! but how it is big! — like the rugs 
in the Palazzo Reale,'* the old fellow said this morning who 
sold us hot roasted chestnuts down by the Villa. 

Speaking of these funny little muffs so many of the women 
here are carryings reminds one of the lorgnettes they all use — 
perhaps that explains why they cling to the tiny manicotti, 
since, after all, they have only one hand to keep warm! One, 
you know, must be forever free to use a lorgnette. Always a 
lorgnette or more being leveled at one. You doubtless noticed 
it while you were here though you came in season to miss the 
muffs. Even mamma has caught the habit and invested in a 
stunning gold pair though we all know she hasn't slightest need 
of them. F. declares he had just as soon one would level a 
pistol at him as a lorgnette here in Naples — why he particular- 
izes this adorable Xapoli, I'm sure I don't understand, unless 
he thinks these languorous, dark-eyed women of Xaples use 
lorgnettes with an air quite too gracefully charming to be safe 
for him. Indeed F. admires these women tremendously — says 
they know how to laugh and how to walk and a multitude of 
other items we have never learned in America ! Now what do 
you think of that? 

F. came in last night and surprised us just as I was engaged 
in giving you his view on the lorgnette question — surely there 
is something in " Speak of angels and they appear," for F. is 
sans doute, an angel, no matter what you, his cousin, may say 
to contrary ! He has been in Rome for the last few days and 
we have missed him fort. 

You could never guess who came down with him — S. and M. ! 
They've already become so tired of the Embassy that they ran 
off to Paris and then S. thought of something she wanted to 
see in Rome and F. met them at tea one afternoon at Madam 
G.'s. He brought them down in his car along with an officer 
stationed at Caserta (who it seems is much devoted to M.). S. 
was nearly dead after the long jaunt and we dined here in our 
rooms. They each look splendidly well and have some Paris 
gowns truly stunning. 

M. has become a perfect polyglot in these three years over 
here — I'm horribly jealous of her French. I have consolation 



52 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

though in. knowing I've never yet asked a cabman " £tes-vous 
affiance "? You have heard F. laugh over it — no doubt since 
he came up just in time to hear the jehu answering with no 
end of pathos in his voice, " Malheur sement, Mademoiselle! 
J'ai une femme et six enfants! " 

Yet worse by far was the French of that Englishman who in 
excitement of being ushered into the Holy Father's presence 
turned the Saint Pere with which he had been coached to ad- 
dress His Holiness into fervent exclamation of Sacre Pere! 
Well — tutu gli Inglesi sono pazzi, you know ! 

We are planning a picnic somewhere out in the country for 
to-morrow — taking several Italians with us. (S. and M. each 
have a weakness, you know, for these dark, soulful-ey^d men). 
We intend treating the Italians of the party to a true American 
picnic and F. and Mr. T. are making elaborate preparations 
for the dinner. How we wish you were to be one of the party 
and with us through Noel! 

You would find Napoli just as full of charm at this season as 
when you were here. For Napoli you know, is not dependent 
on Primavera or any midsummer golden dazzle of heat for her 
beauty and picturesque. All is warmth and color. Even on 
days when Sirocco blows and gray rain clouds hide azure sky, 
there is still warmth and vivid color. Warmth in churches, pic- 
turesque in streets, color in this queer old Neapolitan patois. 
Surely there is no place in whole world comparable with this 
Naples — no place which can give so much of interest, so much 
picturesque, and at the same time so much beauty! 

I am quite happy we are to spend Christmas here instead of 
at Rome as first planned. Each morning we are awakened, 
even before daylight, by Zampognari from the Abruzzi playing 
on bagpipes before shrines of Madonna — anticipation of the 
birth of El Gran Piccolino Gesu. They play on pipes similar 
to those of the Scottish Highlanders — the music strange and 
weird as it steals out in the early morning air. Yet who knows 
but that to Madonna Mary and El Magno Gesulino, salutations 
of these humble Zampognari be very sweet? 

The booths which line the Toledo are full of interest — quite 
as picturesque no doubt as the summer fruits stalls you saw 
sheltered by gay striped awnings and embowered in green foil- 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 53 

age. The cries of the different venditori make cacophony truly 
deafening. And yet^ it isn't cacophony after all, since it all 
goes towards making this mysterious city of dolce Napoli. 

But this must off at once for the fast mail. Mammina and 
Mr. T. are already at lunch as they are going out to look at 
water colors this afternoon. Much wisest to buy whatever one 
can now before the stock is not as yet picked over and) the great 
hordes of January tourists not arrived to completely demoralize 
prices. 

Shopping strikes F. and me as altogether too prosaic for 
such a day as this and we intend motoring out around Posilipo, 
with tea, perhaps, at the little ristorante you used to love — 
Promessi Sposi. He has promised I may be dea ex machind — 
the roads round Posilipo are so superb for motoring. 

Per Diana! — what a blot. And no doubt the bronze Nar- 
cissus standing here on my desk has caused it with his own 
most Evil Eye, for of course, despite the fact that in America 
we supposed poor Narcissus to have died from gazing at his 
own charming loveliness, every wise Neapolitan, well knows 
he cast an Evil Eye upon himself by looking into the stream and 
so brought to pass his own sad fate. Forsooth I must turn 
him to the wall before I attempt writing further for assuredly 
I can not well manage pen and make horns at the same moment ! 
Non e vero? 



This region, surely, is not of earth, 
Was it not dropt from heaven? ** 

— Rogers 



TO G. 

December 29th. 

TO-DAY has been like a May day with sun scattering 
golden dust over the city and bay in a million glinting, 
dancing rays. F. came soon after we had had our coffee and 
insisted to Mammina that on such divine day I be allowed to 
cut my lecture in Art History at the Noble School — espe- 
cially when he heard that our soulful little professore was to 
talk on Bernini's pernicious influence on Art. F. adores that 
" delightful, dashdng " Bernini as he always refers to him — 
thinks him so full of ingenuity and grace that under no con- 
sideration would he allow that I hear him derided ! 

I myself am inclined to think Bernini quite as grotesque, as 
graceful, but the sunshine and call of the road, — or rather 
F.'s motor horn, — were too great to be resisted for lecture in 
chilly palazzo, so we set off for Posilipo driving by way of the 
splendid Via Tasso. Then later circled around to Vomero, a 
new but very aristocratic part of Naples with beautiful stately 
palazzi, charming villas with equally adorable gardens, captiv- 
ating ristoranti with extensive views, and splendid roads for 
motoring. We had a delightful morning, stopping at Casa C. 
to see Conte C.'s exquisite gardens. And then again at San 
Martina Certosa which, though suppressed, is still a holy place, 
if tourists but knew — full of prayers and phantoms of long- 
forgotten Carthusian fathers. Mamma is wonderfully in love 
with the old slumbering Monastery and insisted that we leave 
her there to wander about the Cloisters and bask in the sun- 
shine while F. and I went to climb the steep hill at the back of 

Castle St. Elmo. A marvelous view from there — one can 

54, 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 55 

almost look to where, " Hills peep o'er hills and Alps on Alps 
arise." 

We came home by different route -. — a thread of a street which 
climbed down to the city over house-tops and gardens and so 
narrow and tortuous that F.'s car and our escort of bare-footed, 
brown-eyed piccoli turning hand-springs for our amusement 
(and incidently our soldi!) quite filled the way. Had a tram 
come and met us face to face, to pass would havd been quite out 
of the question, and we should have had to politely request that 
it reverse and start back to the city. Happily we had no cause 
to create consternation by any such unusual demand and at last 
reached the Toledo. There too, though, one can but move at 
snail's pace, so black the street with people and 'buses and car- 
riages of all descriptions. Hundreds of vendors shouting their 
wares of everything under this shining sun and water-sellers 
with acqud fredda — chilled heaven knoweth how, for I have 
seen not an inch of ice since I arrived ! — and sun-colored orange 
juice and the rose-pink anisette, beloved of Neapolitans. 

F. had dejeuner with us and we were but finished when Due. 
G. came in. We had our coffee out in the garden where the olean- 
ders are still brave in jars which might have once concealed the 
Forty Thieves, And were not long in agreeing such a day as this 
was but for living in the sunshine. Mamma's proposal for a 
tramp out in the country wasj hailed with delight, though we had 
difficulty in selecting what part of the country we should choose 
— Naples has the most enticing surroundings of any city in the 
world I verily believe ! But we finally decided the question by 
each drawing a rose from the j arl on the table — the one drawing 
the longest stem having privilege of saying east, west, or north. 
I, having been the lucky one, at once declared for Posilipo — 
Virgil's enchanting Posilipo which is as full of beauty and loveli- 
ness as is Naples of deep mysteries' and old traditions. 

F.'s chauffeur drove us out to the end of the Strada Nuova 
which runs from the Villa along the edge of the sea nearly all 
the way to Posilipo, where at top of the hill, near the lovely Villa 
Sans-souci, we gaily set forth a pied. The roads all around Posi- 
lipo are glorious for tramps, and do not tire one's feet as do so 
many of these streets of Naples with their rough lava block 
paving. I say for ** tramps," but really it would be impossible 



56 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

to truly tramp, in the English meaning of the word, anywhere 
around this adorable Napoli. Saunter is best one can ever do, 
for either a glorious view appears or something of beauty or pic- 
turesque to stop one. Even a road running between high garden 
walls has orange tree overhanging, laden with golden fruit, or 
a climbing rose in full bloom — there is certain to be something 
to make one linger along the way. 

All around Posilipo one is thrilled with the old, old beauty, 
the same as when St. Paul, during his stay at Pozzuoli came here 
to visit Virgil's tomb — so the legend runs, you know. And then 
as one saunters on and on, past the charming Ristorante della 
Rotonda, of a sudden the marvelously beautiful Bay of Baia lies 
with the island of Nisida, almost at one's feet. Indescribable, 
yet unforgettable loveliness ! One who has seen this part of Posi- 
lipo can well understand why the place was so beloved by Virgil. 

Wei sat down by the wayside — quite spell-bound by the scene 
stretched out before us, for though we have come over this same 
road many times in motor and in carriage, its charm has never 
been so powerful as to-day when we sauntered along the road 
quite like simple peasants out on a festa. " No language, nor 
any art of the pencil can give an idea of the scene when God 
expressed Himself in the landscape of Italy." Even Hawthorne, 
so chary of his praise to this adorable land, spoke thus of her 
matchless glory, so you see it is quite out of question that I, in 
this prosaic English, attempt to tell you of the mighty, marvel- 
ous beauty which lies in wait for you here on this sunny west 
slope of Posilipo. 

Nor does the enchanting scene have beauty alone — thrilling 
associations are connected with it all. Especially at Baia, that 
most magnificent watering-place of the wealthy old Romans, 
such as St. Paul found it with its gorgeous ville giving it name 
of the Golden Shore. Even the little island of Nisida had its 
memories. For here plans for Caesar's murder were first laid, 
and here Brutus took refuge after the deed was done and was 
visited by Cicero. Here too, it was that Brutus spoke the beau- 
tiful farewell to Portia which Shakespeare (or Bacon or some- 
one !) has made immortal, and here also Portia, on learning of her 
husband's death, committed suicide by swallowing coals of fire. 
F. suggested that if burning coals were as scarce then as they 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 57 

seem to be in this land now, Portia was certainly wildly extrava- 
gant and might easily have chosen some less expensive means of 
death — incidentally rather more pleasant also, I should say ! 

We might have sat there gazing off over the enchanting Bay 
of Baia till night fell, had not a carriage with four wilted tour- 
ists armed with flaming guide-books, come dashing down the hill, 
awakening us to the fact we had come for a " tramp," but had 
been suddenly little less than hypnotized by the marvelous beauty 
stretched out at our feet. 

Not far from there is entrance leading to the Grotto of Se- 
janus — a noble piece of old Roman work built before time of 
Christ, so Due G. said, and we must see it. Che fortuna that he 
was with us ! Posilipo is all of volcanic formation, and this long, 
perfectly straight passage has been chiseled through the hillside 
for over a half mile in length — built to furnish some great villa 
which once stood at the further end, with a shorter route to Poz- 
zuoli and Baia. It seems much longer than half a mile since 
there are no turns to break the distance and as one walks farther 
and farther, the entrance, when one turns round to look, appears 
but mere speck — like some lighthouse seen on a dark night when 
miles and miles out from land. 

We were wonderfully impressed by the simple grandeur of the 
old Grotto through which the cruel Vedius Pollio often passed 
with retinue of slaves, — whose flesh perhaps, was soon to furnish 
delicate morsels for Pollio's pet lampreys. And once home I 
hunted up this Grotto in Baedeker, but to my disappointment and 
surprise he barely mentions it, merely saying — "uninteresting. 
Fee one franc." This in his general guide to Italy and then in 
Southern Italy he gives a few details in very fine print with a 
forward in large print that the fee is one franc; and the " inspec- 
tion occupies about one half -hour not very profitably ! " As a 
tourist would no sooner venture out without his Baedeker, than 
would Neapolitan without amulet against Evil Eye, it is not to 
be wondered at that the old custodian at the entrance and our 
piccolo guide each solemnly declared visitors; to the old Grotto to 
be as rare as bags of gold. 

But at dinner to-night we were speaking of our afternoon to a 
Mrs. A. who was with us and she at once thought she had a book 
by Norway describing at length this very same Grotto. Since 



58 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

then she has sent the book in to us and we are quite happy to 
find that someone else has appreciated this noble piece of old 
work which we four so admired — even though the mighty Bae- 
deker so disdains. Just see w^hat he says — 

"The torch flashed now on Roman brick work^ now on arches 
of massive stone built to increase the strength of the vault, and 
fit it the better for those great processions of chariots and horse- 
men which came and went to the Villa at the further end, return- 
ing from a hunting party with dogs which had wearied out the 
game on the hills of Astroni, or escorting the gladiators landed at 
Pozzuolo for some combat in the theater which now lies so waste 
and desolate amid the vineyards. How this passage must have 
rung with shouts and laughter in old Roman days ! " — so the 
book runs. How full of interest this Norway found it ! And we 
not less so. 

Our guide, though only a small ragazzo, was well-versed in all 
legends pertaining to the ancient place and had us peering at 
this and that by flickering light of his torches. There was great 
fascination about sight-seeing in the silent, tomb-like old Grotto. 
The party who had awakened us so rudely as we sat along 
the wayside bewitched by the beauty of Baia Bay, had, of course, 
been loyal to Herr Baedeker and not stopped for moment to give 
valuable time to exploring an uninteresting Grotto, and we were 
quite alone. 

An opening broken through the great thickness of the walls on 
the right hand gave tempting glimpses of the shimmering blue 
sea, so we all climbed through and out to where the water dashed 
madly against the rocks many feet below. There was fairy-land 
enchantment in the scene with the stretch of Tyrrhenian, so won- 
derfully, so heavenly blue, lying out beyond, through whose azure 
waters a great transatlantic liner came riding, hastening to gain 
port, — urged on, no doubt, by call of the divine Parthenope. 

The cove at our feet seemed fit home for sirens — who knows 
but that they were often there in the ancient days, luring men 
against the treacherous rocks. Our little guide enhanced our 
speculation by telling us in solemn confidence, that underneath 
where we were sitting was a cave filled with gold and precious 
stones. We pressed him to tell us more — had anyone visited 
the cave.'* His Neapolitan shrug, solemn big eyes and mysterious 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 59 

" Chi lo saf " sent us into peals of laughter which echoed among 
the great rocks of the cove with weird effect. Had fisherman 
passed just then they would surely have sworn sirens had returned 
and hastened to the village to spread the news. 

Duca G. proposed to F. that they toss the piccolo down into 
the water below^ that he might swim and find entrance to this 
mysterious treasure-cave. Having found it, he might bring out 
some gold or pocketful of precious stones as proof and swim 
with it over to Nisida where we would follow with a boat and di- 
vide the spoils. Our piccolo was quite game — evidently so elated 
that the great Neapolitan signer Duca should delegate him for so 
important a mission, that he would not have hesitated for a mo- 
ment in being actually " tossed " down into the swirling waters 
at our feet. Very likely it would not have injured him in the 
slightest since these sun-bronzed young gods round Naples must 
have at least nine lives to, escape death as they do in their dare- 
devil feats under horses' feet and carriage wheels. 

We had taken a half dozen cakes of chocolate before we left 
the city and must have sat there on the rocks just outside the 
great walls of the ancient Sejanus Grotto for fully an hour; far, 
far out of the path of tourists, eating our chocolate (a Turino de- 
light which might have pleased fastidious Vedius Pollio himself) 
and speculating on the possible truth of there really being treas- 
ures hidden for safety in caves underneath the cliffs — as our 
youthful guide had so soleronly vowed. If so, the secret lies 
buried along with Vedius Pollio and other wealthy old Romans 
who so long ago had their ville here along the enchanting Posi- 
lipo shores. The idea is now regarded as only idle tale of the 
fisher folk. But as our piccolo said, " Chi sa? " 

At end of the long passage the boy unlocked a door and we 
were on the ground where, as Norway says in his delightful book, 
once stood a great villa and " theater, ringing with shouts and 
applause and by it all the other buildings of a noble mansion." 
Yet however noble may have been the theater or villa, I am sure 
nothing was more admirable than this long dignified passage 
through which we made our way this afternoon. 

Our piccolo left with many gallant compliments to the beau- 
tiful ladies and invitations to the signori for speedy return — 
visitors to the Grotto, he repeated solemnly, were as rare as 



60 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

bags of gold! He was a handsome ragazsino with wonderful 
eyes, and we gave him generous hiiona mano of soldi and the 
remaining cake of chocolate which he said he would take to his 
brothers and sisters — he had only thirteen ! How that cake of 
chocolate was to be divided among thirteen, heaven only knoweth ! 
At least it was problem no one but a Neapolitan would attempt. 

We found ourselves quite in the country, only one house in 
sight, perched on a small knoll — possibly the very site of some 
famous old villa. A woman was washing clothes — 'tis ever 
wash day in this country judging from the clothes one sees 
forever flapping on the lines, though perhaps, after all, one 
does see more on Sundays than on any other days ! We were 
thirsty and begged some water which she graciously brought 
from some mysterious source, icy cold and pure — an old copper 
pail full, with a quaint two-handled copper dipper. It was 
wonderfully picturesque, tho' rather difficult to manage — a fact 
our smiling hostess evidently appreciated as she apologized elab- 
orately because she had no glasses for us, nor any wine to offer. 
But Duca G. politely explained that americani liked mere water 
molto bene and as fact dawned on her that we were really Amer- 
icans — Santo Dio! but Americans! — her joy was pathetic. She 
caught our hands, showering kisses on them, and calling her 
small daughter (a child with wonderful red hair, if you please!), 
pointed us out as people coming from that land where the hus- 
band and father had gone a year ago. The child eyed us as 
though we might be angels suddenly dropped down from the 
blue cielo, though her attention seemed rather more taken with 
the two men than with us — especially with F. who, evidently 
feeling alarm for fear he too might come in for some of the af- 
fectionate demonstration, had backed off to examine the dogs 
who lay basking in the sunshine. 

Had we come bringing special tidings from her husband, she 
could have been no more delighted to see us. The thought that 
we were from America — were really truly Americans ! was all- 
sufficient. She begged us to be seated, to stop and admire the 
views, and in a moment the ragazza came bearing a dish of 
freshly gathered mandarins nestling among their own leaves in 
charming fashion, and the woman herself followed with piece 
of cheese on a plate likewise adorned with the green. Ah, 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 61 

these artistic Neapolitans — they are all born adorable artists! 

And there we sat taking in her views^ eating her frutta and 
fromaggio, listening to tales of her caro Pietro in Nuova York 
and admiring the two letters which she brought out to show with 
the United States stamp and New York post-office mark — all^ 
just as though Pietro were our own well-beloved servant^ and 
we had known the whole family for years ! Si, si! Pietro was 
good — but good ! He had sent home five dollars two different 
times during the year he had been in Nuova York. " Si, si, 
Signore! it is much money/' she proudly replied when F. gra- 
ciously declared Pietro extremely kind to send all ten dollars 
— ^ fifty lire! 

She kept fishermen boarders — grazie a Dio, the sea had taken 
none of them now for the two whole years. She raised her own 
insalata — grazie a Dio, also-, her garden flourished to-day just 
as when Pietro had looked after it. And^ grazie a Dio, thirdly, 
there was good vintage each year from the tiny vineyard — the 
wine so clear that it was well liked by the merchants from Na- 
ples. And so on and so on. In a few moments we knew the 
whole family history; just how many litres of wine had been 
pressed last fall — pressed, no doubt, by the sun-browned, bare 
feet of our own gracious hostess and the small girl with Titian 
hair; how Pietro would return in a year or two with much gold 
and they would make a big dowry — Madonna mia, but big ! — 
for the pretty shy ragazza, whom I could see at a glance was 
already losing her heart to F. The dowry provided for, our 
hostess and the caro Pietro would live like princes all the rest 
of their lives — that, you understand, means nothing more seri- 
ous than they could afford to eat macaroni on all feast days. 
Already they had view any prince might well envy — superb 
site for glorious villa. Secretly I vowed that after my own 
dowry was provided I would return and try to coax our hostess 
and her caro Pietro to vacate in my favor. I hinted as much to 
F., but he seemed to think that even a honeymoon might not be 
quite ideal here did Pollio's ghost return some night to feed 
his lampreys ! 

When we came to go our hostess refused all pay for our re- 
freshments — we had been her guests ! The holy saints who 
sent the weather had sent us to her door to ask for water that 



62 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

she might see with her own eyes what Americans might be like. 
Would we come again sometime before we left Napoli? If we 
would send her word she would have flask of wine and polenta 
con fromaggio ready for us. Polenta, you know, is a sort of 
baked meal pudding and for extra occasions it has covering of 
grated cheese, though this is immense extravagance — but yes ! 

Mamma pressed a small bill into the sun-bronzed palm of 
the little ragazza who was to have the big dowry some day, and 
thanks from our hostess were quite overwhelming — so foreign 
to our own American people of the same class who, in such an 
instance, would have endeavored- to appear quite indifferent. 
We were like beautiful angels — might all the blessed saints 
and Holy Mary ]\Iadonna go with us ! Thus we said a rivederci. 
Oh, these lovable people who have their own warm Neapolitan 
sunshine somehow stored up in their hearts — they are truly 
adorable with their gracious ways and smiling brown eyes. 

We are surely going to see them again sometime and I sug- 
gested we take a book with views of New York City such as I 
saw here in the English book-store the other day. But F. said 
that would never, never do! If she saw her caro Pietro was in 
city where buildings were twenty, thirty, yes, even forty stories 
in height ! she would be so sure he was recklessly endangering 
his precious life, that she would have him return at once. To 
call Pietro home before he had saved up enough for the dowry, 
that the pretty ragazza might wed at least a debonair young 
jehu, would surely be very serious matter. Certainly I must 
not think of giving anything like that! Was there ever such a 
wonderful philosopher as F.? 

Coming home we saw much of the yellow broom, Leopardi's 
pathetic lover of sad solitudes, and bushels and bushels of roses 
growing as bravely here in December as though it were June. 
We had a lovely walk back to the high road of Posilipo between 
high garden walls above which 

in the dark firmaments of leaves 
The orange lifts its golden moons," 

as Lowell has somewhere charmingly said. 

Two carrozelle brought us home since there were no voitures 
to be found. F. and mammina engaged in talking over an af- 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 63 

fair which F. hopes to close in Roniie to-morrow night, thought- 
lessly appropriated one of the cabs, forgetting that Duca G. 
and myself without duenna! must take the other. Arrangement 
which doubtless shocked our dignified old cocker, especially as 
night was almost upon us and the lights of Napoli — superb 
necklace of diamonds skirting the long curving shore line — al- 
ready twinkling in the distance. Che bella giornata! 



"Ell, well! I am in Italy, — the land of shrugs and laugh- 
ing/* 

— Hewlett 



•I? * 



TO M. 

Napoli^ December 30th. 

FWENT up to Rome this morning where he is to celebrate 
• the year-end by closing a large deal. But far too prosaic 
it seems even to hint at stocks and bonds in this idyllic land where 
Present and Future are quite lost sight of in thoughts of the splen- 
did Past. Sunshine and sapphire sea seem far more fitting sub- 
j ects here for contemplation than securities and stocks ! But 
alas^ F. is too American to see the matter in this light and took 
himself away from this adorable Naples this morning as though 
all world depended on consummation of his odious deal. May 
Sirocco overtake him in Rome ! For Sirocco, you must know, 
is grandiosely powerful enough to call a halt on even a five million 
lire deal — no wise man attempts business while Sirocco blows. 
We went down to the Stazione to see him off and incidentally 
the depot, for with F.'s car always at command we have been 
able completely to ignore the prosaic chemin de fer. Tho' very 
likely the chemin de fer itself is not the same common-place af- 
fair here of other lands, but holds, like everything of this sun- 
scorched, splendid, old South, something of beauty — something 
of mystery inside as well as out. Though forsooth, inside, the 
beauty and mystery would much more likely be found in third 
class compartments in which travel the picturesque poor, rather 
than in the first or even second which this morning seemed hold- 
ing only loud-voiced Germans and their carpet bags — real car- 
pet bags, caro mio, with great yellow and mauve roses nodding 
boldly on scarlet back-ground ! And staid British spinsters in 
stout-soled boots, armed with Baedeker and tea-baskets. And 
of course some American girls, of whom, by the way, a stately 

Neapolitan dowager confided to madame a few days ago, " Elles 

64 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 65 

sont tou jours un peu sauvages! " Wasn't that naive? But sav- 
age or not^ — as you will, there's at least no more solemn mys- 
tery in an American tourist than in one of these ruddy-faced 
Tedesci. Though, grazie a Dio, sometimes a little more beauty. 
At least there were three charming American girls in the sta- 
tion this morning at whom some debonair young officers in clang- 
ing swords gazed admiringly, to the consternation of their chap- 
erone who was frantically endeavoring to buy tickets, see to the 
weighing of her baggage and keep an eye on the three jeunes 
files at same moment — ■ having heard no doubt that these Italian 
men who stand so thoughtfully twirling mustaches are really 
dangerous creatures ! 

The Stazione, by the way, is a handsomely pompous build- 
ing on Via Garibaldi, one of the broad new streets elegantly laid 
out in oldest part of the town — each Italian city now has its 
Via Garibaldi you know. F. showed us around before his train 
left. One of course buys whichever class ticket he wishes (I, 
myself, intend always buying third here, since seeing the loud- 
voiced Germans, staid British spinsters and savage Americans 
who travel in first and second!) and has baggage weighed in 
Italy quite the same as in other European countries. But here 
however, they allow not one pound for free transportation on 
your ticket and consequently everyone was rushing madly aroxmd, 
trying to keep an eye on their half-dozen suit cases, crazy Ger- 
man carpet-bags and other countless pieces of hand luggage of 
all shapes and sizes under this golden sun which may be stored 
away in the compartment free of charge. Three Tedesci had, 
I am quite ready to swear, no less than twenty pieces of hand 
luggage between them — a great tea or lunch basket, of veri- 
table hamper-like proportions, brilliant carpet bags with flowers 
putting these of Naples to shame and various strapped bundles 
rolled in black oil cloth, looking very much like those shiny 
articles Italian emigrants arriving in America so often carry ! 
Where they were all to be stowed away, heaven knoweth! 

Altogether it seemed quite the proper thing to travel with 
from five to twenty articles of hand luggage, but with our al- 
lowance all spent on corals and bronzes, mamma and I have 
come to conclusion we ourselves shall have to remain in Naples 
for some time. Yet that, you may imagine, would be no great 



66 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

hardship. Indeed we ask no more charming prospect than that 
of staying here till summer, basking in the true blue and genuine 
gold of the bold sun until it has scorched us as brown and as 
swarthy as these very Neapolitans. 

We drove to the post-office after Mass as I had notice in the 
morning's post I had a package there. Letters you know, are 
delivered on Sundays as faithfully as on week days here in this 
Old World Naples. But to-day being festa, we found the de- 
partment where packages are held was closed after twelve and 
though a debonair attendant of Mephistophelean countenance 
and angelic manners flew around wildly in my behalf, it turned 
out the one man who held both the authority and the key had 
gone to the country to spend his holiday. Che cattiva fortuna! 

You know no doubt that everything from bon-bons to auto- 
mobiles may be sent in the parcel-post through Europe in lieu 
of express as with us, and last summer F. actually met a young 
American fellow — one with more money than brains evidently 
— who at the last moment found himself in a great tangle. He 
himself ready to sail, but his car in which he had been touring, 
in another part of Europe; so he had it sent by mail, that it 
might arrive in time to go with him. 

You'll perhaps begin to think from my haste to gain entrance 
into the parcel-post department on a festa that my package must 
be nothing less than an auto also! so I'll confess right now it is 
only a box of bon-bons which Tenente B. wrote he had ordered 
his confectioner at Turin to send me with New Year's greetings. 
But Turino chocolates, carino mio, are a something which anyone 
knowing their great perfection, will not allow to long lie un- 
claimed. The chocolate here is wonderfully delicious — much 
better than ours or the French, and the little shops selling noth- 
ing but chocolate in some form or conception are, next to coral 
shops, most enticing places in the world. The Turino is spe- 
cially fine — so no wonder I hurried off to the post-office and in- 
tend sending Maria again early in the morning. 

The post-office here is the handsome palace Gravina, built in 
the fifteenth century and held to be the most splendid of all 
old palazzi in Naples — the only one, I believe it has been said, 
that has any real architectural beauty. I myself, however, admire 
them all, — am always wondering what mystery lies j ust beyond 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 67 

their green shutters and what mysteriously romantic Italian 
women once hung over the little iron-work balconies. I'm afraid 
I've no interest whatever in true Ruskinque beauty, but F. 
votes Ruskin a great bore and declares no one but he or one of 
the stupid followers of his cult would have it in his heart to 
criticise even a palace in this happy smiling land. 

One may censure in England, F. says, and in Germany, — 
yes, even in lovable France. But in Italy — ah, that is quite 
another thing! So enthused all who come here with the charms 
of this paradisical sunshiny Napoli that they would have noth- 
ing changed. For who would find it possible in this adorable 
land to bemoan lack of sky-scrapers, or disdain old-fashioned 
'buses which rush one along at the startling speed of mile an hour 
and wish in their place an elevated road dashing on a level with 
the mysteriously shuttered piano nobile of old palaszi, down the 
famous Via Toledo! Or who is there who ever comes into this 
dolce far niente Napoli, in such mad rushi as to rebel if the elec- 
tric trams will carry but a certain number and that here, unlike 
America, there is not ever room for one more ? 

For these trams of Naples, you must know, are decidedly 
unique, being divided into first, and second class compartments 
like the chemin de fer. For the soldo more which one pays in 
first class, one sits on a cushion and generally feels secure the 
person next him will not be saturated with garlic as must often 
happen in this garlic-loving country among the second class. 
And, en passant, does this not strike you as rather clever idea? 

I'm sure you would quickly agree did I tell you of how M. 
and I left Williamstown for Lenox one day last Spring on that 
Bennington-Barrington electric line. It was before parlor cars 
were on and just in front of us was a woman with large basket 
of odorous new onions of which she herself had had liberal dish 
at lunch judging from the onion odors which pervaded our end 
of the car — with the same recklessness garlic often pervades 
some of these tiny by-ways of Naples. But santo cielo! what 
difference between onions in a prosaic New England tram and 
garlic in one of these mysterious, picturesque Neapolitan side 
streets, where odors of garlic are always suffused somehow by 
subtle odor of incense from some nearby Church, odor of golden 
oranges piled high on gesticulating street vendor's cart and 



68 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

odor of glad gardens which; spill their perfume of carnations' and 
violets over high garden walls. 

Our car was crowded at that time of day^ I remember, and 
when we saw our woman buying ticket through to Pittsfield, we 
at once decided to stop over a car in South Adams and left at 
first stop that onion-pervaded tram made, which proved to be at 
that butter-colored Polish Church — you know the one. To use 
our half hour we went inside — wonderfully struck, I remem- 
ber too, at finding such magnificent Polish building. But 
n'importe! Soon after we came out one of our friends from 
among the Williams' students came serenely motoring into view 
and offered to drive us to Lenox in his car — ■ highly amused at 
finding us sitting dejectedly on church steps into which all the 
Poles of South Adams were hastening for their Saturday con- 
fessions. 

He promised us nothing worse than a faint odor of gaso- 
line and of course we quickly accepted the invitation, quite 
happy over our rescue. Everything was lovely — until just 
before we reached Cheshire when that provoking auto absolutely 
refused to auto as an auto ought to. It turned out that our 
gallant rescuer was out alone with his new Thomas for first 
time ! Whereupon M. and I bravely attempted to make use of 
our precious knowledge of motors, but alas, the dainty little 
motor in M.'s runabout and the great humming motor in a sixty 
horse-power Thomas have few points in common and it ended 
in our walking over the country roads and ruining a pair of 
boots to catch an electric car, after P., our gallant, had coaxed 
some farmers with three horses to pull the machine into shelter. 
By the time we reached the Wend all House we were all quite 
famished. Dinner finished, we found with dismay that we had 
missed car after car and even by motoring couldn't reach I.'s 
in time for her dance ! All because of a woman with a basket of 
onions ! You remember you always wondered why we didn't 
come as we promised. 

Were we Neapolitans we might have boldly declared that the 
poor woman had managed somehow to cast evil eye on us, but 
as it was, our leaving the car seemed so awfully ridiculous we 
swore P. to secrecy and have never told soul of that day's ad- 
venture. I'm recounting the foolish affair to you, at risk of 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 69 

your laughing at us^ simply that you may appreciate the great 
wisdom of modeling our trams in America on this same clever 
Neapolitan plan of first and second class compartments. Per- 
haps you'll be good enough after hearing of all our trouble, to 
suggest the idea to some of your friends who build street cars 
down in Pennsylvania. Compartment trams in which you are 
given receipt for your fare as you pay would be far more sensi- 
ble I'm sure than those pay-as-you-enter cars where if you 
haven't a nickle you have to change a quarter or a dime and while 
hunting frantically for that among powder puffs, hairpins and 
shopping lists, someone stands on your toes or pushes your hat 
quite over your eyes. Decidedly these two class trams would 
be quite clever for America — don't you agree } For had we 
traveled in one from Williamstown to Lenox that fateful day, 
our woman with the onions would probably have been in one 
and we in the other. Or perchance unkind fates threw us to- 
gether, we might very easily have moved to other class and so 
placed door between us. i 

That is, we might have moved into other compartment had 
there been vacant seats — most certainly wd would not have been 
allowed to stand ! For this, you must understand, caro mio, is 
but another queer feature of these Neapolitan trams — a fea- 
ture quite as sensible no doubt as the two compartment plan, 
but so very unlike our American trams with always room for 
one more, that it strikes one as quite absurd. Positively no one 
may stand inside the car, and only five persons, allowed on rear 
platform with conductor — no more or that tram will not move an 
inch ! 

We had a most amusing time a week or so ago. A friend here 
at the Hotel was ill and had asked if while down in the city, 
we would not go to the White Star office and book her passage. 
It was rather late when we reached the office and by time we 
had secured a cabin and gone through with all the red tape, we 
came out to find it quite dark — night falls quickly here once 
the bold sun has dived into depths of the indigo Tyrrhenian. 
For once no cabmen were hovering around, but Rione Amedeo 
tram of our part of Naples was standing near and in a moment 
we were aboard. No seats vacant in either first or second class 
compartments and platform well filled. But we, not in least 



70 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

daunted by this^ bravely took stand in the aisle^ expecting every 
moment some dark gallants would of course give us their seats. 
But alas^ a man may not give up his seat to a woman here, when 
tram platform is already full, unless he be willing to leave the 
car and walk! How you American men would enjoy these Nea- 
politan trams ! 

I soon saw looks of astonishment on the faces of passengers 
and as polite whispers in regard to the eccentricities of forestieri 
became rife throughout the compartment, I remembered hearing 
F. once say no one was ever allowed to stand in the aisle of a 
Neapolitan tram. But mamma never dreamed but what we were 
doing the correct thing and looked rather disdainfully on the 
men who had now mysteriously lost all sense of gallantry. 
Bravely serene in the knowledge that all things are permitted 
the dare-devil Americans, I supposed it matter of small moment 
to play ignorant of mysterious Neapolitan tram-laws and pa- 
tiently waited arrival of the conductor who had run in a tobacco 
shop after cigarettes. 

But with his arrival trouble began. Seeing us and the uncon- 
cealed astonishment the two standing* women were causing to the 
whole first class compartment, he shook his head vigorously, ex- 
claiming tragically, " Niuna posta, Excellenz'l " No seats. 
Did he wish the fare? I drew out some soldi, — the whole com- 
partment waiting with bated breath as I calmly extracted cop- 
pers from the secret depths of my big purse. But these the 
now thoroughly excited conduttore eloquently refused to touch, 
pulling out a great alarm-clock-like watch and noting with soul- 
ful eyes the tragic truth that it was full time for departure 
from that noble Piazza della Borsa. Again he gesticulated 
with classic brown fingers, exclaiming " Niuna posta, Excellenz'!** 
with superlative talent and soulful eyes growing quite tragic. 
But how could we, forestiere from America, understand his volu- 
ble Neapolitan? 

The second class passengers had pushed open the dividing 
door by this time and loudly demanded cause of the delay. Ex- 
cited expostulations followed. Santo Dio! how could tram move 
with two signore standing in the very aisle? More expostula- 
tions. And a Frenchman passenger was dramatically consulted 
and advanced to beg in suave tones if mesdames would not have 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 71 

the exceeding great kindness to take some other tram since 
there were no seats in this ? I rewarded him with a plaintive ges- 
ture and inquiring expression. Ah, mon Dieu! but we were cer- 
tainly most obtuse people, he whispered tragically. A big, 
bearded, blonde German next tried his luck. But that was in 
truth really useless and sweetly I murmured " Engleesh/' feeling 
quite certain there were no British or Americans within ten rods. 

Of course mammina had soon seen with dismay we were for 
some mysterious reason not desirable passengers, and was for 
making a hasty exit, but you know how spoiled I am — I want 
what I want when I want it, as our own xA.merican tram advertise- 
ments run ! But for once I over-estimated rights and favors 
conceded Americans ! The motorman clanged his bell, waiting 
impatiently for the " go-ahead " toot of the conductor's horn. 
A crowd gathered around tram outside. First class passengers 
showed their polite amusement, at the same time endeavoring 
to think of some way in which to explain the awful situation to 
the forestiere. The second class conversed loudly, gesticulating 
wildly. The soulful-eyed little conductor beat his breast, call- 
ing on Buon Dio and all Saints in cielo to assist him in persuading 
the two foreigners off his car. He probably made sign of the 
horns behind his back also, lest we have an eWl eye and cause 
even greater calamity. But Heaven forbid we ever cause 
greater calamity here in Naples than that night ! Yet in spite 
of tragic-charged atmosphere we each wore look as innocent as 
Raphael's divine cherubs in the Dresden Gallery and mamma 
calmly looking at her little bracelet watch, inquired of me rrhy 
the car did not start ! 

Ah, fatal question ! Spell was broken. The saints rushed at 
that moment to rescue of the poor conductor. Who but police- 
man appeared with a dapper Archangel-faced little fellow by 
his side — a hastily summoned interpreter if you please ! For 
looking us straight in the eye. yet not forgetting even in this 
most appalling crisis his Neapolitan gallantry which demanded 
that he first beg million pardons for his intrusion, he said with 
great effort and all in one breath, " You-must-to-get-off ! Surely 
no American could have made situation plainer ! Still had 
mammina not been there I would, I'm sure, refused again to 
understand and been tempted to hold that tram there in 



72 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

that noble old Piazza della Borsa until all the tongues of this 
cosmopolitan Napoli were exhausted. That we, two petites 
femmes, standing in center of a broad tram aisle could cause 
such disturbance was too amusing. But as it was we of course 
made our exit gracefully, regretted exceedingly of having made 
the trouble, et cetera! — all which was translated at great 
length by the Archangel-faced young man who had summoned 
up courage and sufficient English to make us comprehend the 
dire situation and who, on account of his wonderful linguistic 
accomplishments, now become lion of the affair. 

The policeman (alas, that he was not one of the elegantly 
uniformed Royal Carabineers!) gallantly escorted us through 
the excited crowd, apologizing profusely in eloquent Neapolitan 
interpersed with French, for having given the noble ladies so 
much inconvenience and was albout to assist us aboard another 
Rione Amedeo tram — one of the dozen or more cars waiting 
to move. But the noble ladies firmly declined to invade any 
more trams that evening and took rather one of the many cabs 
which had driven to the scene to see what the great disturbance 
might be and why people were excitedly talking about the 
signore americane. We had, it seemed, for almost ten minutes, 
held up ten or more trams, and the eccentricities of mad Ameri- 
cans who persist in traveling dare-devil fashion over the world, 
mithout even French at command, was doubtless subject of de- 
tailed talk that night in at least ten palazzi! 

It was really all most amusing, but we are quite satisfied that 
these Neapolitan cabmen who have such world-famous reputa- 
tion as rascals are far more manageable than soulful-eyed tram 
conductors. The alarming dash and recklessness of these cab- 
men who round corners, heaven alone knoweth how! who crack 
their whips madly yet seldom touch the cavallo (though of course 
you know a horse is not a Christian and one may beat him with- 
out mercy if he please) — in a word these debonair, rascally, 
yet irresistible jehus, are in our estimation a thousand times 
preferable to the immovable tram conductors with their leather 
bags slung over their shoulder in which to carry the tons of soldi 
they gather from passengers who are never, never allowed the 
great joy of standing in a tram aisle! Verily the ways of this 
mysterious Naples are unfathomable! 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 73 

Later. 

Mamma had gone off to hear that most adorable '^ Madame 
Butterfly '* at San Carlos with some English friends now here 
in Naples, and I had planned to send you, for once, letter 
without interruptions; but just as I finished telling you of tram 
conductors and debonair cockers, Piet^ro, our jehu who is ever 
waiting our pleasure in the cab-stand just below, caught sight 
of me on the balcony and sent up to know if the Excellenza 
wouldn't go for a drive. You know I told you these dark-eyed, 
swarthy cabnxen are quite irresistible, so what to do but 
leave your letter, dispatch a hasty note to madame, and go.f* 
Pietro is prince of all Neapolitan jehus, as debonair and irre- 
sistible one moment as Naples itself, and as beautifully pensive 
and sad as Antinous the next. So mysteriously complex a 
Neapolitan ! 

Madame — cette charmante madame, as F. always refers to 
her — loves this bold, dashing sunshine almost as well as I and 
we made splendid trottata back and forth the long Corso Vit- 
torio Emanuel. Called the " corso, " heaven knows why, for the 
corso is never made there, — splendid drive though it is, looking 
down on the great murmuring city of sun-scorched, white 
piazzej churches, full of incense and prayers, towering with 
their blessed Crosses straight into the blue heavens; stately 
weather-beaten palazzi with gardens of sweet odors and softly 
splashing fountains; and narrow streets with tiny shops and 
sweet shrines to Our Lady of Many Sorrows who meek and 
patient awaits here in these humble by-ways prayers of the 
poor — sweeter by far no doubt, than costliest gems and robes 
bestowed by nobili. And bipyond the great murmuring city 
with its mysteries and legends lying at one's feet, there is ever 
the great broad bay, glinting this afternoon with a million 
phosphorescent flashes of golden sunlight which danced over 
the deep indigo blue — blue as deep as the dark mysteries 
hidden in its depths. Far down the coast fairy-like little vil- 
lages seem to beckon to those on the Corso and promise days 
of enchantment — can one but tear themselves away from this 
dominating spell of Napoli. In the mystic distance there are 
ever the solemn, rolling Apennines and nearer at hand, brood- 
ing over tiny coast village and this great Naples with equal 



74 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

disdain for each, Vesuve lifts its snow-crowned head boldly into 
blue of the sky and looks down upon us — mysteriously inso- 
lently, to-day it seemled. Though perhaps after all, that was 
but my imagination which F. declares has developed to such 
alarming degree in this Old World Naples that I see mys- 
tery lurking round every corner, scent subtle secrets just be- 
yond the entrance of most prosaic of palazzi! But what 
will you here in Napoli? The pure gold, the deep unfath- 
omable blue, simply intoxicate one — make one quite irrespon- 
sible ! 

One of the old palazzi of the Corso, with walls at least seven 
feet in thickness and subtle air of romance shadowing the whole, 
proved as great a fiasco this very afternoon as did an opera 
written by a mad Englishman and given at Mercadante a few 
nights ago. I happened to mention it to madame as we drove 
by and she at once cruelly scattered all mystery and romance 
to winds by calmly saying it was occupied by sisters who keep 
there a sort of modest pensione for Catholic governesses ! She 
herself once lived there and often went in now for tea on Sun- 
day afternoons. Would I care to go in perhaps as we came 
back and see the presepio the sisters had arranged in their 
chapel? I was sorely disappointed in having all my romance 
dashed to pieces so ruthlessly, yet who knew what secrets of 
the splendid past might not still lurk within the massive walls? 
Soi I agreed to stop. And straightway forgot all about romance 
and mystery once I had met the sweet sisters. One thought 
rather of how they, to become the Brides of Christ, had buried 
all secrets of the past and lived shrouded not in any romantic 
mystery, but in divine. 

They were quite happy to show their little Chapel with its 
sweet presepio to the American. Each Church or Chapel, as 
well as many of the homes, has its presepio during this Christ- 
mas season you know, — each telling the story of the Holy 
Nativity and Incarnation. I think F. said the " Little Church 
Around the Corner " in your own New York has this sweet 
custom with its scene of the Nativity each Christmas, just as 
of course most of the Roman churches in America have. Per- 
haps you may even have one in your own parish. Though I'm 
afraid the youthful americani, whom the holy scene in the 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-XOTHIXG 75 

stable is especially intended to impress^ seldom know the re- 
ligious spirit of the season as these little black-eved Neapoli- 
tans. Pouring rain though it was on Xoel, when Maria and I 
went to early Mass, there were already dozens and dozens of 
shining-eyed little Neapolitans reciting their hymns and pray- 
ers and surrounding the Gesu in the manger in infant adora- 
tion. It was glimpse of Neapolitan life one could never for- 
get — one which I suggested Mr. T. try to catch for his Salon 
picture. 

And it is not only the little children here who love the Christ- 
mas presepii. But all Naples; for the grown men and women 
of the poor here are but big children, you know, and worship 
as devoutly before a twentieth century presepio as did the 
humble peasants before those first representations of the 
Nativity St. Francis erected in early part of thirteenth century. 

One Christmas season it was in a grotto while journeying 
from Rome to Rieti that the blessed Saint erected an altar and 
at its base a little manger with figure of the Bambino, carved 
by devout fingers from olive wood, nestling in the hay. And 
to this humble representation all the peasants came to worship, 
and shepherds also, bagpipes in hand, just as shepherds came 
to Bethlehem and just as Ahruzzesi shepherds come into 
Napoli each year when festival of Xatale is approaching, to 
play the beautiful " Pastorale " and other antique tunes before 
shrines to Madonna, — music so weird and mysterious. But oh, so 
beautiful, as one wakes and hears it stealing out in the still 
early morning air while all the world lies asleep — all. except 
these humble dark shepherds who devoutly move from shrine 
to shrine and the Brides of Christ and the holy fathers who 
rise to sing their office of Matins and Lauds. 

And then at another Christmas season, in the village of 
Greccio in the valley of Rieti. St. Francis again revived the 
night of Bethlehem, preparing in the humble little church, 
humble as the stable in which Gesii was born into the world, 
a presepio most marvelous. In the manger lay a real bambino 
borrowed from the peasants, smiling up into the faces of the 
worshipers. By his side, an ass and an ox gazing with large 
solemn eyes down upon the tiny child who had been chosen 
for this great honor of representing the Infant Gesulino to 



76 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

the people. And here to this presepio which the Poverello had 
prepared, came hundreds and hundreds of peasants and coun- 
try folks and Friars, — those men of earth-brown robes and 
naked feet — and townspeople too, even of the greatest, most 
noble families. In truth as the chroniclers of the Divine Min- 
strels say, devout people from all parts of Umbria, traveling 
like the Magi and shepherds of old to the manger where Christ 
was born. Snow and ice covered the Umbrian mountains, 
cutting winds howled — wolves too, so that it was necessary for 
the men to carry great fire brands to put them to flight. But 
still they marched on towards the presepio, chanting their 
hymns of praises, indifferent to cold and suffering, Sjfor at 
Greccio they were to worship El Gran Gesulino even as did the 
shepherds at Bethlehem. 

And so, thanks to holy St. Francis, the presepii are found 
to-day in each Church throughout length of Italy — in the 
Church of Ara Coeli, Rome, where lies that most blessed image 
of Bambino, carved it is whispered by an angel; and in the 
humblest little church of Naples where the poor come before 
a presepio fashioned of papier mache to kneel and worship as 
devoutly as did those peasants who gathered round the first 
presepio of the Poverello. 

But I wonder now that my Italian-mad pen has run on and 
on, if this disquisition on presepii will have any great interest 
for you. Though I'm sure it would could you only see themi 
in the churches here and understand what they mean to these 
humble people. One of the men who helps in the kitchens of 
the sisters' pensione was kneeling before the presepio in their 
little chapel while we were there this afternoon — so wrapt in 
his devotions that one almost marveled. When he rose to 
leave, he carefully extracted a lira from a shabby old purse — 
leaving it for candles to burn before the tiny manger. One 
of the sisters who saw the gift was deeply touched — the fellow 
was so poor, had a large family and a lira represented an 
entire day's work. 

In the large salon of the old palace where we had our tea, 
everything was in gay holiday attire — quite like America. 
Even a splendidly decorated Christmias tree on which the New 
Year's gifts will be hung, for New Year's and Epiphany are 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 77 

the season when gifts are made here in Italy you know. 
Natale is strictly a religious festa in which churches are center 
of all celebrations. But though there are few gifts, there are 
wonderful delicacies eaten on this day, each festa having its 
own peculiar dainties. The Christmas capon takes place of 
our turkey or goose in homes able to afford such a luxury, while 
eels form the great dinner delicacy of the poor. And of course 
all Napoli, rich and poor alike, eats the famous schiacciata, 
pastry confection baked throughout Italy for festa of Natale 
alone. The New Year's here is the season for family reunions, 
gift-making and all the gayety which comes with our Christ- 
mas in America. You know they have an old saying in Italy, 
" Christmas where you will. New Year with your family." 

I met several girls whom other governesses and duennas had 
brought in for tea as madame had me. There were several 
priests also. I had a little chat with one elderly padre who 
had many questions to ask about America, it being quite evi- 
dent a real, live americana did not cross his Old World path 
every day. Alas, I could not tell him that I had heard of the 
fame of a certain priest named Benedetti, a boyhood friend of 
his who now has a parish in Nuova York, — the only Benedetti 
of whom I had ever heard being Jacopone who gave us the 
" Stahat Mater." And having explained at length that my 
days in New York were always numbered and my home not in 
that wonderful city of buildings that scrape the sky, but in the 
Southern States, he wanted to know whether I lived in Chili 
or Peru! Were the Spaniards there good Catholics? Did we 
not find it very warm? Still more lengthy explanations were 
necessary to make him understand I spoke only of southern 
part of the United States and perhaps his idea of where that 
mysterious land may lie which is neither Nuova York nor yet 
Chili or Peru, is even yet rather vague — not, you understand, 
carino, because of any fault of his, but simply because my 
French and Italian tongue is not yet coached in making very 
lucid geographical explanations. 

While we were talking I noticed part of the great salon 
being cleared and in a moment madarae came up to say they 
were going to have a little music and dance — would I like 
to try the Italian steps before I left? Do you think it very 



78 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

wrong, caro, to dance on Sunday? I think it was my first Sun- 
day dance, but it seemed very innocent amusement with the 
sweet sisters smiling their approval that I'americana could do 
the Italian steps so cleverly, while at further end of the salon 
sat the priests sipping their chocolate and looking on, appar- 
ently glad that we jeunes filles were happy. 

I found mammina had her friends here for dinner and I 
had to dress in a short three minutes — something I never could 
manage very cle\^rly, you know, even with the best of maids, 
but which now with this most adorable Maria is no trick what- 
ever! She is more of an angel each day. We begin to fear 
lest, instead of losing her heart as we once thought, to one of 
these splendid carahinieri who pace up and down by the hotel, 
casting their eyes ever in her direction, that she may be secretly 
contemplating a cloister. I suspect her of being in the midst 
of novena for F. at this very present. She thinks him quite 
perfection — a signor, vero gentiluomo — yet at same time has 
some grave doubts as to state of his soul. She confided to me 
the other day of how Pasquale, her brother, once made novena 
for Mr. T., his padrone, and of how Mr. T., a protestante — 
but a protestante e vero! — had very soon afterwards given a 
priest of one of the Capri churches a beautiful piece of em- 
broidery from Constantinople for the baldachino of Our Lady. 

Maria's great solemn ecstatic eyes would make you quite 
wild — make your heart beat as madly perhaps as I am sure 
the heart under the scarlet-faced military cape of one of these 
debonair Royal Carabineers beats each time Maria crosses his 
path or looks down upon him pacing by, from our balcony 
eyrie where she often sits to sew in the sunshine. 

I wish M. might see the lace collar she has just finished — 
perfectly exquisite. I was quite happy when she hinted 
Bufana may leave it for me when she comes round to reward 
all good children on eve of Epiphany. This being the time 
gifts are given to the children here in Italy — symbolic, of 
course, of the gold, frankincense and myrrh brought to the 
Infant King by the wise Melchior, Gasper and Balthasar. 

Bufana, I might explain, is a sort of Saint Nicholas mas- 
querading in feminine attire, but unlike the stout, jolly, ruddy- 
faced little old man who comes to America, is tall^ witchy and 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 79 

dark of countenance. In truth the only two points in which 
Bufana tallies with Saint Nicholas so far as I can learn are 
in the fact that she, too, comes down the chimney (how that 
is possible when there are practically no chimneys in all Naples, 
heaven knoweth). Once arrived she too leaves nice things 
in the stockings of all good boysand girls or in the little sabots 
of those too poor to own stockings. But what do you think 
there is left for the wicked.'' Nothing less than switches or 
bags of ashes ! So you can readily understand my angelic 
amiability now that it lacks less than a week of Bufana's 
arrival. 

I'm a*fraid this lengthy babble of Neapolitan trams and 
presepii, lace collars and Bufana, is rather disjointed. The 
December night is so ethereally lovely, I've been out on the bal- 
cony between almost every line. The nights here are simply 
dropped from heaven — what more can one say ? And with 
Naples lying at one's feet, ethereal, mysterious, starred and 
spangled by her thousand lights like some splendid queen 
adorned for court ball, there is beauty entirely beyond descrip- 
tion in our stiiF Anglican prose. It's a beauty which entirely 
fills the ardent silence of the night. You remember, perhaps, 
you and I both wondered a few months ago what queer 
phenomena that might be which a writer in his novel of 
Sicily spoke of as an " ardent silence." Here one under- 
stands it quite perfectly. There is never silence which is not 
ardent — a subtle something in this Italian atmosphere far too 
intangible to be defined. So buon* riposo, carissimol 

December 31st 
This must leave this afternoon else the New Year's greetings 
which it holds will be rather mal a propos! Mr. T. is expected 
from Capri this afternoon and F., too, hopes to be back without 
fail on the fast train de luxe from Berlin which makes flying 
trip 'tween Rome and here. For " New Year's with your 
family," as the saying runs, you know. We are of course to 
spend New Year's eve at the opera — how I wish you were 
with us ! Italian music is heavenly no matter where 'tis sung, 
but here in its native Old World atmosphere it seems to hold 
dashing sunshine, blue heavens, deep waters and all the mys- 



80 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

teries of Naples within its bounds. Have you heard yet Puc- 
cini's masterpiece, " Madama Butterfly "? die hella, bella 
cosa! The harmony is as exquisite as these Italian flowers. 

May all the happiness of the New Year's be yours and may 
you " vedi Napoli" — but not " e poi muori! " is ever ardent 
wish of your devoted adorer — 






'" Our Italy's 
The darling of the earth, — " 

— Elizabeth Browning 



TO G. 

Napoli, January — 
i 6 rj^A BEL TEMPO ! " I heard Maria exclaim as I opened 
A my eyes this morning. And though I was but half 
awake I murmured " Grazie a JDio/' for as she threw open the 
long windows, sunlight poured into the room in a million rays 
and down at my feet, across the house tops and Church domes, 
lay a calm sapphire bay of rhythmically dancing waves, — 
a sun and sea saying Sirocco had been put to rout. Yet for 
final proof I jumped up to see Vesuve. For Vesuve you know 
is always truthful — strange characteristic to go hand in hand 
with all his satanic qualities ! and his tulle-like plume of lazy 
smoke gave certainty this morning of very different winds than 
these which for two days have been turning the sea upside 
down, blowing great billows into very center of the Villa and 
causing all sailors to put into port with haste lest such diabolic 
fate overtake them as once befell poor ^neas by these same 
evil winds. 

All the world, — the sun, the sea, the deep-throated bells of 
churches, seemed singing a great Gloria this morning and with 
banishment of evil winds. Spring had seemingly arrived. 
There was even a swallow flitting around my bedroom balconies, 
singing boisterously. Though Maria reminded me of the old 
Italian proverb, '' Una rondellina non fa primavera " — one 
swallow does not make a Spring — and insisted I wear my 
furs to Church. 

For like all good] Neapolitans Maria and I started the Sunday 

by going to Mass. She has been telling me each morning lately 

of a new priest who has lately come to the parish from 

Salerno. "Such a voice! Madonna Santa!'* she has declared 

81 



82 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

repeatedly. " Signorina mia, it is as if all the sunshine of 
Italy had been melted in his voice — Proprio! " And with such 
simile ringing in one's ears, one might very easily be disap- 
pointed. Yet not to be. Such marvelous spiritual beauty in 
his voice one might have knelt there on the cold hard pave- 
ment till A ve Maria rang at night. Molten sunshine ! — how 
wildly extravagant ! yet how wonderfully expressive. 

Later we walked as far as Piazza dei Martiri and the Villa. 
It was the beautiful golden sort of morning for basking in the 
sunshine — but then it seems always sunshiny and beautiful 
here in Naples. Thus readily does a morning of dancing, 
laughing sun make one forgive two days of evil Sirocco and 
Libeccio ! 

Coming back towards the hotel, just as we reached the old 
Chiesa, our priest of the golden voice came down the steps. 
We said '^ Buon giorno *' and some sudden impulse made me 
stop. Perhaps it was liis voice which held the molten sun 
when he stood before the Altar, but I think it was the some- 
thing in his dark, soul-lit eyes reminding me of dear Father 
G. Yet assuredly one may not accost a priest for the reason 
that his voice is divine, nor yet because his eyes remind one 
of another priest, and I drew out a five lire note — all I had 
with me alas ! — explaining in my best Italian tongue that it 
was for his charity. Maria had told me of what an angel 
he was to the poor and he looked quite pleased at the little 
gift — thanking me to my surprise in broken English. Per- 
haps he also is one of the many hundreds of Italians studying 
our tongue with hope some day of sailing across the sea. Yet 
I almost hope not. He belongs to this old-world Italy and 
would be quite out of place in America, though no doubt deeply 
consecrated Italian priests are sadly needed there for those 
poveri so often far from both home and family. 

He spoke French — in this we were each more at home — 
and confided what difficulty our English gave him — thought 
it worse than the German or Russian ! I told him of my great 
longing to speak well the sonorous Italian, but alas, was an 
American — a race not gifted in divers tongues. " Perhaj>s 
not in tongues, but in charity, and that is a hundred-fold bet- 
ter," he answered warmly. Yet told me too I was the first 



' 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 83 

American who had ever given him money for his poor — that 
he would not soon forget my kindness. 

Maria stood back shyly and quite astonished at my chatting 
with the new priest of the marvelous voice — a liberty no Italian 
jeune file in the world would have ventured to take. He spoke 
kindly to her^ and asked that she thank me better than he was 
able to do. Such gracious gratitude for such little gift ! It 
should have been five thousand lire at least to have merited the 
coin of thanks received. 

" The father does not speak English ? " Maria asked me as 
we walked home. 

" Quite half as well as I Italian_, Maria mia, — so that you 
see is little, little ! " I made answer. 

" Gesu huono, what a pity ! " I heard her murmur. 

"Why a pity?" I inquired, since Maria herself declares 
the English full of discords — a language antipatica. 

" I was thinking, little signorina, one would like to make 
their confessions to a father like that ! " she replied slowly. 
And I, thinking of the voice which held the sunshine and of 
the kindly dark eyes which held the light of a beautiful soul, 
envied for the moment my maid. 

Soon after I came in Mrs. F. sent a note saying she was 
leaving Naples to-morrow, but must have another look at some 
of those wonderful treasures in the Museum — would I not go 
with her? As I think I have told you she is quite the most 
fascinating Englishwoman I've ever met, and of course I went, 
even though joy of basking in the sunshine held rather more 
charm than thought of the vast Museum. Not that it is cold 
there, for the Museum is like the churches here — full of 
warmth in winter yet cavernously cool, 'tis said, in summer. 
Simply another contradiction seemingly of this mysteriously 
complex Old World Napoli! 

It was highly interesting to watch the crowd of Sunday visit- 
ors at the Museum — people of a lower class than those on 
week days, since on Sundays everything is quite free belonging 
to the Government. Yet in truth one should not call them the 
lower class, for they are most certainly not the lower when it 
comes to appreciation of art. These people can pick out 
pieces of greatest beauty and study them with infinitely more 



84 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

bon gout than those tourists one meets hastening through the 
Museum as if doing a painful duty which they were in a mad 
rush to have finished. 

This morning there were many soldiers in picturesque uni- 
forms and debonair sun-browned sailors — both soldiers and 
sailors accompanied by women and girls with gay shawls and 
small black lace veils thrown carelessly aroiuid the neck. For 
as inexpensive as hats are here — at least they seem absurdly 
so to us Americans — these poorer classes are nearly always 
bareheaded, have only shawls or little lace mantles for their 
head which is seldom covered, however, except in Church. 
That they were without chaperone or duenna mattered nothing 
to the dashing cock-feathered Bersaglieri and their pretty 
sweethearts, with blue-black hair and soft dark eyes, and they 
strolled through the great halls of treasures, admiring this 
and that — and most of all one another ! — as supremely happy 
as though wealth of the whole Museum were their own. Many 
laboring men accompanied by their entire families were there 
too — the father and mother pointing out to the children the 
magnificence of that masterpiece of Greek sculpture, the Far- 
nese Bull, or perhaps lingering in Hall of the Great Bronzes 
where is the richest collection of bronzes to be found in the 
world. Then there was the usual sprinkling of German tour- 
ists who tour Europe on three francs a day (so at least the 
English love to say!) and besiege Galleries and Museums on 
all free days; and of course a few Britishers and Americans, 
short of time and rushing around with flaming Baedekers, — 
doing Naples in two days and giving an hour of their pre- 
cious time to the Museum, whereas one could go there every day 
for years and years and never cease to find treasures new and 
wonderful. 

Mr. T. says that last year he spent much of his time every 
morning for two months in the Museum copying some pictures, 
and that Sunday after Sunday, from ten o'clock until closing 
hour, the same families were often there — admiring, criticis- 
ing, never failing to pick out the masterpieces. Where an 
American would give special notice perhaps to most modern 
work the Gallery held, the Italians were adoring some chef- 
d'ceuvre of an old master artist and they, one must remember. 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 85 

have no guide books to declare which is a masterpiece. Indeed 
Mr. T. sometimes says, in these Galleries of Italy and Europe he 
blushes with shame for his countrymen who, unless they refer 
constantly to a guide, are almost unable to distinguish work of 
the cinquecento from that done in 1907! 

Mrs. F. was flitting here and there to take a fond parting 
glance at this and that, while I wandered about, far more in- 
terested in the people themselves this morning than in Greek 
sculpture or wonderful frescoes, though there are some new 
mural decorations very lately discovered at Pompeii which at- 
tracted me immensely. But I soon noticed that I, myself, 
seemed to be of almost as much interest as anv of the treasures 
and supposed it only because I was American, jeune fille, and 
apparently duennaless, when of a sudden I remembered that I 
was actually carrying my parasol ! So stupid. All such 
articles must of course be left with the custodians at the en- 
trance and my coolness in sauntering among priceless treasures 
of one of world's most famous Museums with a bold Roman 
stripe parasol tucked serenely under my arm was creating con- 
sternation on every side. Consternation which swept through 
the great halls and out to the very entrance, since one of the 
custodians soon came hurrying up to relieve me — gallantly 
assuring me that it was all Ms fault in not having seen it 
as I passed through the wicket. Oh, these Italians ! they've 
charm irresistible. 

He spoke some French and we were chatting of that debonair 
Neapolitan god, Caruso, now \'isiting America and crowned 
with honors, but once a bare-footed, dare-devil ragazzo in the 
same village with the custodian himself, when Mrs. F. bore down 
upon me and insisted on carrying me off to see a prosaic tg^ 
frame, capable of cooking twenty eggs ! and a cheese grater 
— articles she had just discovered were in use two thousand 
years ago. I dare say they had ice tubs and oyster forks as 
well — those old Pompeiian exquisites ! and I would have much 
preferred gossip with my gallant cusliodian concerning that 
divine-voiced Caruso with whom he once played leap-frog and 
mora, rather than gaze upon kitchen utensils, even though they 
be twenty centuries old, lined with silver and inlaid with ara- 
besques. 



86 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

We drove home by way of the Toledo, black with people and 
carriages as always at noontime and especially on a festa 
when all Napoli seems gathered on this one fascinating old 
street for promenade. Masses of all classes jumbled together 

— the whole street quivering with life. Throngs and throngs 

— heaven knoweth where they all come from ! Black and red 
uniformed carabineers; friars in coarse robes, rope girdles and 
naked feet covered only on sole with rude sandal; long files 
of little priests-of-the future in black cassocks ; a chance con- 
tadina with stays outside her blouse; an illustrissimo signor 
wearing the Honor Legion Ribbon; vendors of fruits who carry 
their whole establishment along with them in scales or basket 
■ — as happy as though they owned some great exporting house 
down near the port; a professor of the University and a genius 
of the Naples Conservatory of Music; a dark, sinewy Arab- 
like fellow who knows without doubt no street of Cairo can 
begin to compare with this Toledo; Royal Navy sailors, rough- 
ened by gusty winds and toughened by strong burning suns; 
beggars — superlative actors each one and quite irresistible ; 
swarthy, shoulder-shrugging lower classes who are as attractive 
as the wilted tourists are prosaic; groups of debonair young 
nobili who twirl their canes and splendid officers who twirl 
their mustaches — both quite simpatici when you come to 
know them, not in the least soft, suave and smooth as tourists 
love to imagine! So packed with these and a million others 
is this mile-long, old Toledo that it seems as though those on 
foot could make no progress whatever, since even en voiture 
one can but creep along — the sidewalks have hours ago over- 
flowed into the street and it is as though one were driving 
through a veritable sea of humanity with hundreds of men star- 
ing at one boldly. 

Yet one need not be in the least annoyed because so many 
of the men stand and gaze at women here in the streets. Their 
look is not intended as the slightest rudeness, as so many fool- 
ish tourists, especially the self-conscious Anglo-Saxon tourists, 
are so inclined to believe, but is rather a sort of gallant admira- 
tion which Italian women understand perfectly. F. himself 
says if American girls who come here will only " make their 
eyes behave," they need never meet with the rude men of which 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 87 

they now complain^ — complain^ yet at the same time_, I'll 
wager^ are often wildly attracted and find difficulty in not 
showing it. For these Neapolitans are attractive. 

While we were halted in a blockade Marquis T. came up, said 
he had been to the hotel and the portier sent him off to the 
English Church, where he rushed to meet only mamma and hear 
that I was at the Museum and after walking home with her, 
had been strolling up and down the Toledo and ringing up the 
hotel for an hour — all such strenuous efforts on a festa as 
he wanted to know if he might not come this afternoon with his 
sister-in-law and take me to the tea and dance the Tennis Club 
gives every Sunday at their Casino in the Villa. We were 
planning a sail with Mr. T. so I could not accept, and also 
reminded him that americani do not make practice of dancing 
on Sundays. At which he naively suggested that while in 
Rome one do as the Romans do ! I promised to go down to- 
morrow to play tennis — a game very popular with Neapoli- 
tans. What game would not be with courts laid out down by 
the dancing sapphire of the bay in the semi-paradise of the 
Villa? 

We spent an enchanting afternoon out on the water in Mr. 
T.'s little yacht, " The Princess." His sails are painted after 
Venetian fishing boats in rich gold and terra cotta with the 
crescent, the cross and the stars quite the same as those Tur- 
ner loves. I fancy though, Mr. T.'s embroidered cushions and 
splendid rugs picked up here and there in Africa, make fittings 
which would stagger one of those Venetian fishermen whose 
sails he has made bold to copy. Not to mention gouter he 
serves — tamarind jam to-day which would surely have ov^er- 
joyed that staid Epicurus whose followers long ago sailed over 
this same idyllic portion of Tyrrhenian sea. 

We had a Mr. A., an Oxford man, with us — quite charming 
for a Britisher but sorry substitute for F. who has taken him- 
self off to France for a fortnight and plunged into Paris gayety 
— with the same ardor very likely with which Pasquale plunged 
into the water to rescue mamma's scarf a playful Zephyr tossed 
off her head. For Zephyr was here to-day, accompanied no 
doubt by Venus and Cupid both — so serene and lightly danc- 
ing the blue waters. Strange contrast to waters of two days 



88 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

ago, — a great seething inverso mare such as Horace told of, 
quite purple with old-forgotten mysteries the evil winds had 
stirred up from its depths. 

Mr. T. and Pasquale taught me tactics learned from these 
wise old Neapolitan sailormen. Pasquale himself is prince of 
sailors. You would find the fellow irresistible — devout as a 
Religious, dare-devil as a Neapolitan street gamin, doggedly 
devoted to Mr. T. whose praises and wondrous accomplishments 
he sings in most extravagant terms. For Pasquale, you must 
know, can improvise like a god, be it in adoration for Madonna 
or in love for Mr. T. ; hatred of the Tedesci (who as he says 
always forget the huona mano!) or in the gallant praise of that 
most beautiful signora americana — in other words mammina 
mia to whom Pasquale is as devoted as Maria herself. 

Mr. T. had dinner with us and then later we all went over 
to Villa Santa Maria where they are at home each Sunday 
evening and always have good music. We met Duca G. there 
who is to sail over to Capri with Mr. T. in the morning — the 
gods permitting. Mr. T. hopes to finish his picture of the 
Grotto this week. Lord A. consenting to have it exhibited in 
Les Petits Georges along with the other studies Mr. T. has 
lately done here in Italy. 

Mammina met Mrs. K. at the English Church this morning. 
They are on their way to Salerno to spend a few weeks before 
M.'s wedding — and anxious that we go with them to AmaM 
for a week. But how can we leave this adorable Napoli, hold- 
ing within her walls mysteries and charms more alluring by far 
than even that enchanted old place, 

" Where the waves and mountains meet, 
Where amid her mulberry trees 
Sits Amalfi in the heat, 
Bathing ever her white feet 
In the tideless summer sea." 



The euphonious Italian tongue simpati^sima. 
Would the better sing of Napoli hellissima! '* 

— M. P. 

4. 4. 



TO K. 

Napoli, January — 

MARIA and I have been out already this mornings even 
before convent bells had rung for Tierce — delving into 
mysterious by-ways and climbing long flights of stairs^ along- 
side a flock of nimble^ impudent goats. She. in quest of a cer- 
tain friend of Pasquale's_, bearing the Frenchy name of Ber- 
trando, for whom Pasquale had left an important message — 
but truly important! I^ in quest the eternal^ yet so elusive 
mystery lurking in these hidden by-ways along with the deep 
shadows — shadows like chiaroscuro of Correggio. Oh, the 
subtle mystery in these little streets ! Smiling mystery lurking 
behind each pair of brown eyes. Solemn mystery of dark, 
shadowy shops. Sweet mystery of humble shrines scattered 
here and there with tiny lamps burning their little wicks flick- 
eringly, yet faithfully, before Madonna ever waiting there to 
comfort and receive the prayers of these humble people — 
people who in spite toil and poverty have kept the Faith in 
their hearts and a smile in their eyes. 

While Maria delved into a garlicy little wine shop, I stood 
watching the woman who had come to refill the lamp at 
Madonna's shrine just across. She was about to mount her 
little ladder when I wondered if she would let me help, and 
without thought of the consternation which would ensue, pro- 
posed in precise Neapolitan tongue that I myself fill the tiny 
lamp. "Madonna Santa! La signorina jokes!" the woman 
exclaimed, almost dropping her oil in the awful surprise of 
being accosted with such request from a signorina — but a real 
signorina wearing a true hat! But no, la signorina is deeply, 

deeply in earnest and — 

89 



90 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

Yet ecco! Maria has missed me and hastens to the scene with 
such consternation in her eyes and such reproof in her sonor- 
ous exclamation of "Angela mia! '* that I do not urge the re- 
quest and meekly ask her to explain to the woman that I shall 
come again some morning and bring an armful of flowers to 
replace the poor faded ones of paper — roses which had turned 
as pale as Madonna's sweet face. The translation being made 
into voluble Neapolitan and followed by very dignified explan- 
ation that the eccellenza is not mad and that such requests are 
entirely natural from americani (Oh, thou Maria!) I am es- 
corted quickly toward the Chiaia — beyond reach of the spell 
of these mysterious by-ways where the subtle charm somehow 
tempts one to all manner of madness. And if some of the oil 
which should have gone into Our Lady's lamp, was spilled this 
morning, I alone, am to blame. Fortunately it is but once in 
a life-time a real signorina wearing a hat accosts one with such 
wild demand. 

" It is Sirocco, little signorina! '* Maria affirmed, graciously 
pardoning my madness as we turned our backs on the woman, 
who on having learned the signorina was American, was excit- 
edly relating the news with much profuse gesture and expressive 
eye-play to a swarthy vendor of greens. " Sirocco e vero! ** 
Ah, this ever-useful, long-suffering Sirocco which is to blame 
for all things ! Was it Sirocco too, I wonder, which put the 
impropriety into my mind of saying, '' Buon giorno! " to a 
modest Friar ]\Iinor who, discaled, and wearing the coarse 
brown robe of poverty, toiled up the stairway as Maria and I 
tripped down. And was not Sirocco perhaps accountable for 
putting it into my heart to send Maria after him with an alms? 
— small, but exchanged for so large a blessing that I came 
home the richer a thousand fold. But alas — poor, long-suf- 
fering Sirocco is never held accountable, but for blame or sheer 
madness ! And perchance some philosopher dares mention the 
fact that during the long summer heat 'tis Sirocco itself which 
carries humidity to the parched olives and vineyards and causes 
the roses to run riot over the Amalfi cliffs and the little Hand 
of Madonna to bloom bravely by the wayside under the bold 
withering summer sun, — it is all small comfort when here in 
January one stands in n« need of humidity and mysterious 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 91 

Sirocco too often rushes over from Africa to put a damper on 
gay plans. 

But even grandiose Sirocco can never put damper on the 
subtle charm of these Neapolitan by-ways and stair-streets, nor 
on the never failing simpatia of the smiling brown-eyed people 
who are tucked away therein — any more than can it put 
damper on a the-dansant held within some old palazzo through 
whose massive walls Sirocco may never penetrate. 

We were at Duchessa C.'s the-dansant yesterday and this 
morning our names flourish in prominence under heading of 
Cronaca Rosa — rose-colored chronicles ! as the society columns 
of the Italian journals are picturesquely dubbed. These the- 
dansants here, by the way, are rather different from the teas 
we generally give at home. One goes about five o'clock, has 
much conversation or dancing — as they will — refreshes 
themselves aesthetically with a little tea or chocolate, or perhaps 
a glass of wine at the buffet, and one or two dolci — the small 
fancy cakes for which these Italian artists des cuisines are so 
famous, you know. Then every one dances and leaves about 
eight or so — in time for dinner. Very simple little affairs, 
you see, but there is a certain Old-World charm to them that 
we in America can seldom manage. We would be sure to think 
tea and wine with only small cakes far too meager to offer at 
an affair which had a dance attached and add ices and salads 
and heaven knoweth what not ! ' In place of one good musician 
at a grand piano, we would of course order an orchestra and so 
on until all simplicity was lost. 

We were guests of honor and had a very lovely time, meeting 
no end of these people who are really wonderfully attractive 
— altogether simpatici. And since Duchessa C. is giving a 
series of these teas we shall probably see more than we intended 
of Neapolitan nohili this winter, even though we are traveling 
incognite as J. would say, and came only to study and lead 
la vie simple. 

Unlike America there are as many men if not more at the 
teas here than women, which is quite lovely to be sure for 
jeunes files — no girl, however plain, need fear she will not 
have a good time. They of course have the waltz and then 
there is the Boston — a dance similar to our two-step yet dif- 



92 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

ferent enough to be quite new to me. 'Tis extremely popular, 
and considered the dance of America ! having been introduced 
by one of our Ambassadors at a ball he gave in Rome several 
seasons ago (so at least I was informed by a dashing young 
cavalry officer who is stationed there and was able to Boston 
a hundred per cent, better I fancy than any bona fide 
Bostonian — to say nothing of the grace with which he 
managed at the same time a long clanging scabbard!). 
Altogether it seems the Boston is considered quite the thing 
throughout Italy — for an American to admit he had 
never danced it before would be to admit himself quite bour- 
geois. Grazie a Dio I myself caught the trick of the step at 
once ! 

There is surely no doubt about it — Italians do love the 
Americans and all that comes from America. Most certainly 
this includes our language and few of the nobili think their 
education complete without having studied more or less English. 
They are so gifted too, that even though English is so very 
different from their own soft, euphonious Italian, one is always 
able to find some one who speaks the tongue. This at times 
very fortunate — especially for those not even speaking French. 
But at other times when one does speak a little French and 
Italian and would prefer using it for the practice it gives, it 
is amusingly discouraging to have some one say, " Speke 
Engleesh at me. I understands well ever think you says. Me 
— I speke Engleesh veery good. I has frin' in New York — 
New York eese beeg ceety. I likes beauteeful American 
peoples " et cetera ! Really this is a very fair example of the 
conversation one sometimes finds themselves engaged in with 
a Neapolitan. Yet our Italian is probably not half as clever 
and on the whole Italians pick up our language wonderfully 
quick. It is not at all surprising to hear a jehu or street gamin 
sonorously rolling forth our slang. To be informed sweetly to 
" Skidoo " by a small vendor from whom you have lately bought 
a dozen postcards is an every-day affair. And if you pin the 
gamin down to what " Skidoo " may mean, he will assure you 
wisely that it means " Come again." To be told you are a 
banana is at first rather mystifying 'tis true; but ecco! if the 
signorine americane are "peaches," per Bacco! surely they are 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 93 

"bananas" also! Such mysterious reasoning on the part of 
Neapolitan birrichini being conduced from the fact that bananas 
are held in much higher esteem than peaches — peaches growing 
so plentifully that one may buy several kilos for a few soldi 
in summer^ while bananas are always more or less of a luxury 
— a lira apiece just now^ and delicacy but for American mil- 
lionaires. 

Of course French is the international tongue and spoken 
when foreigners are present, but when among themselves the 
Neapolitan dialect is always used — not the Italian you know 
as there is really no such thing. The language we call Italian 
is only the Tuscan dialect — greatest and most classical of all 
the nearly seven hundred Italian dialects, as it was in this the 
divine Dante wrote his mystic verse and Petrarch too. The 
educated classes are of course all able to speak this so-called 
Italian of Tuscany — though they seldom do unless it is neces- 
sary — and 'tis this Tuscan which foreigners study, and then 
later pick up the dialects. Were it not for Maria's delightful 
Tuscan, I myself would doubtless be in the topsy-turvy act of 
learning my Neapolitan first — a calamity true, as 'tis said 
that Neapolitan of the uneducated class would not understand 
dialect used less than fifty miles away! 

French being in such constant demand here, I have made 
rapid progress with that tongue — am able, grazie a Dio, to 
carry on a lengthy conversation without being seriously at loss 
for a word. In fact I speak the language much better than I 
read it — another topsy-turvy act, but it was really necessary that 
I learn to carry on conversation since several of my new friends 
speak not a word of English other than ** how-do-you-do ? " in 
a perfectly expressionless monotone, hence one is simply 
obliged to use French or Italian. A resort to gesture and eye- 
play being poor satisfaction at times, and even a widely com- 
prehensive Neapolitan shrug sometimes fails. But my Italian 
is still, I fear, of decided primer style though I love it much 
better than French. This sweet, sonorous Tuscan is the most 
melodious language on earth I'm quite satisfied. Yet I often 
make most absurd statements, though Maria is ever clever and 
quick to understand — doubtless without lessons will be speak- 
ing fluently in English before I with three lessons a week, a 



94 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

Tuscan maid and a score of Italian speaking friends, am able 
to manage her Tuscan with any great skill. 

I have offered the apologetic explanation, — heaven knoweth 
how many times ! since coming here among those polyglot Ital- 
ians, — that " In America, our country is so large — but really 
immense ! — we all speak the single language and there is little 
need of our knowing several!" If I attempt using this again 
I am sure I shall smile — at least F. said he should and indeed 
a smile would be quite out of place in the serious matter of 
explaining to an Italian, why Americans, who as a people are 
so fond of rushing over Europe, should be satisfied with speak- 
ing but one or two languages. A smile at such subtle point 
would be as unfathomable to a Neapolitan I fancy, as that 
mysterious smile of Mona Lisa. ' 

And by the way that smile of Mona Lisa is in a thousand ways 
the very same smile of this Napoli. Unf athomably mysterious ! 
The thought just came as I sit here looking down upon the 
smiling city. Maria doubtless believed even Sirocco should not 
be held to account for such madness when I commanded my 
little copy of Mona Lisa brought out to me here on the balcony 
and began comparing the two smiles. Did she not catch the 
similarity I demanded, vaguely moving my hand out over the 
mysteriously smiling city. And Maria, stupid for the first 
time in her life — or was it in mere Italian eagerness to make 
gracious answer? murmured, ^^ Madonna mia! — there is no 
similarity between the signorina and that simpering Mona Lisa 

— the signorina is a mille times more beautiful. But vero, 
vero! " 

I see Pietro coming to inquire when the most excellent ladies 
will be ready for the carrozella this morning — Pietro, you must 
know, is prince of jehus. What wonderful explorations have 
we not made with this sun-browned, smiling cabman-courier — 
in the city and out into the country with lunch at some tiny 
trattoria where Pietro always terrifies our host by commanding 
in stentorian tones of warning, accompanied by mysterious 
movement of fingers under our host's very nose, '^ Senz* aglio! " 

— without garlic ! 

And then when a little later the salada comes to table redo- 
lent of garlic — what will you ? Pietro has given warning in his 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 95 

most tragic tones. Our host has commanded signora in the 
kitchen in still more tragic voice. Signora is beside herself 
with fear that it may not be just right — she having used but 
about half the usual amount — and peeps through doorway with 
tragic face. Our host coughs discreetly and wears expression 
equally tragic as he glances from salada to eccellenze. Eccola! 
we eat, remembering bravely that it was that brilliant and 
charming Isabella d'Este who adored the garlic deity. And 
such the charm of this Old World Italy that salad well dashed 
with garlic becomes food for gods — or is it perhaps the 
charm of the bottle of vino del paese which accompanies the 
feast .f* Wine of the smiling country with golden Italian sun- 
shine and Neapolitan laughter of the sun-browned contadini 
who trod the grapes in the wine-press, all bottled within ! That 
the wine has been resurrected from some dark corner of the 
cellar in special honor of the noble ladies is doubtless also due 
to stentorian command from Piietro. Heaven knoweth what 
princesses of royal blood, incognite, he declares us to be ! 

For Pietro is devotion itself — devotion which can be ac- 
counted for only byj a certain shining amulet with which we once 
presented him for his cavallo. A ten lire gift which gave as 
great joy seemingly as Caesar's famous tip of $80,000.00 to 
that astonished charioteer Eutychus. In prowling one day 
through some of the tiny side-streets, we came across a mysteri- 
ous little shop selling horse trappings and wonderful amulets 
to ward off Evil Eye. So we bought this one — a large cres- 
cent with bold horns which screw into the headpiece of the 
harness and tower up bravely, insuring both Pietro and his 
serious-eyed little cavallo from all danger of Evil Eye as long 
as they and Evil Eye shall inhabit Napoli. For a horn in 
some form is the best of all preventives against this malady, 
you know, and one sees them in some shape or size on every side. 

Why horns? Chi sa? Unless perhaps it comes somehow 
from the old belief that Moses came down from Mount Sinai 
with actual horns upon his head — a belief which is said to be 
due, you know, to St. Jerome's translation of the Hebrew word 
qaran, a word which originally meaning horned had come to 
mean radiant and shining, yet St. Jerome turned it into the Latin 
cornuta and made that portion of Exodus to read Moses was 



96 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

horned and children of Israel feared to approach him. This 
the thought which some of the old masters carried out in their 
painting of Moses, and even Michael Angelo, you know, followed 
the belief in his famous Moses in San Pietro in Vincoli, Rome. 
A bishop's mitre typifies this old thought too, since it has the 
two little points or horns, and the same thought kept alive when 
in the consecration of a Roman bishop as the mitre is placed on 
the head, the consecrator prays that " with his head armed with 
the horns of either Testament, he may appear terrible to the 
gainsayers of the Truth." 

Doubtless this belief in the horns as amulet par excellence 
against Evil Eye comes somehow from this old thought that 
Moses came down from the Mount with his face horned, though 
true it is that where the belief in the efficiency of horns first 
started, is of little importance compared with the great fact that 
they are the most efficacious of all amulets against mysterious 
Evil Eye. At least Pietro will solemnly tell you, with brave 
brandishment of his long whip, that those bold horns which 
adorn his cavallo have been means of averting — Mamma mia! 
how many dire disasters .f* 

Horse trappings, by the way, are decidedly novel here. Each 
horse, of course, must wear as many amulets against jettatori as 
his owner can aiford, since horses, you know, are especially sub- 
ject to baneful influence of Evil Eye. Then, too, they use no 
bit here. Instead there is a metal piece over the nose con- 
nected with straps running under the jaw to which reins are at- 
tached, so that a pull from cocher causes nose and jaw to be 
held in far more powerful grip than by ordinary bit. Trap- 
pings, as in the days of Pompeii, for nothing changes in Italy 
you know. Indeed often have we seen peasants with the same 
wooden plows Master Virgil tells one of in puzzling passage 
of his Georgics. 

Maria just here came into the room bearing a large branch of 
juniper which Pietro brought for us. We were asking him yes- 
terday morning where we might find some of the trees, for it 
was the juniper that was blessed by Our Lady after its branches 
bent down and hid her during the flight into Egypt. 'Tis much 
venerated here in Italy and hung up at Natale just as we hang 
the holly at home, while few of the cabmen of Napoli forget to 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 97 

tuck a sprig in their horses' harness — even though, as they are 
careful to explain, the cavalli are not huoni Cristiani! 

One has only to inquire of Pietro about something and then 
lo! in a few hours here it is. The other day we chanced to ask 
what in the world it might be that an old vendor was selling 
to some highly amused tourists in the Villa as we drove past. 
Ecco! if the excellenz* would have patience, they should be 
satisfied. And true to word, Pietro appeared next morning and 
presented to the most excellent signora, with many elegant 
flourishes, a tiny amulet representing a sea-horse — impossible 
little animal with head like a goat, gravely assuring us that its 
power over the Evil Eye is almost equal to that of the horns ! 

Pietro is simply brimming over with these old Southern Ital- 
ian superstitions — superstitions so shadowy that all the wealth 
of Neapolitan sunshine can never wipe them out. INIaria says 
he hopes he has not kept the noble ladies waiting this morning, 
but alas ! when he started the very first person he met was a 
priest which would have brought him diabolic luck had he pro- 
ceeded, so what to do but return and wait a while before making 
a new start? Why a priest of all persons, is thought to be an 
evil omen in such a case, heaven alone knoweth satisfactory 
answer — or is there no answer to these shadowy mysteries of 
this sunshiny mysterious land.^ Coming out the second time, 
Pietro confided to Maria that the saints put a dear little gohbo 
in his path — an hunchback, which is considered heighth of 
good fortune. Ecco! the eoccellenze need have no fear of an 
accident — the saints are with us for the day ! 

" Dio mio! But how it is these Neapolitans are full of super- 
stitions ! " Maria has just exclaimed with deprecatory shrug of 
her graceful shoulders. Yet all the same on the strength of 
that dear little gohbo she is advising us to make a nice little 
promenade out to Pompeii — even though Vesuve and Sirocco 
both declare we shall be drenched to skin do we follow her ad- 
vice. Ah, thou Maria ! 



Delightful city of Parthenope, 

Still the soft airs that fan thee seem enchanted; 
By song and beauty-crescent shores still haunted 
Along thy bright bay, once the siren's sea." 

— ^William Hamilton Gibson 



* * 



TO M. 

' Naples, January — 

WE are just returned to-day from another short stay at 
Capri in Mr. T.'s charming villa. The English family 
who have it for the winter are gone to Rome for a week, so 
we had it quite to ourselves and spent two delightful days ex- 
ploring the island and learning more of the charming art of 
housekeeping in this sweet land, where even prosaic duties are 
made picturesque, than could we learn in a lifetime by living in 
great cosmopolitan menage such as this noble hotel. 

The Villa is truly captivating ! Blue tiled roof — pink 
plaster walls — balconies for two — roses running rampant — 
pergole and gardens — views everywhere ! 

We were not expected, having decided to come over with Mr. 
T. barely ten minutes before the little steamer left, and the 
cupboard in the blue and white tiled villa kitchen was quite 
bare the evening we arrived. For here in Italy, you must 
know, they have a quaint custom of buying just what is needed 
for each meal. And surely there is infinite more picturesque in 
sending a maid to market to bargain and select each article 
fresh for each meal than in the system we follow in America. 
I, although it is not at all the thing among the nobili and 
Maria was decidedly shocked at my middle class manners, went 
to market with the little maid Francesca and took rapturous 
pleasure in the novelty of buying a few pennies worth of this 
and that — each tiny purchase being stored away in the great 
basket on her head. 

In the little dairy where we bought cheese to accompany the 

98 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 99 

fruity I suggested we buy some of the cunning little pates of 
unsalted butter — two soldi a pate. Francesca raised her fine 
eyebrows. " Would the signorina americana eat the butter with 
her dinner ? " To serve butter at the evening meal is thing un- 
heard of here — indeed 'tis seldom butter is ever served except 
with the early coffee and rolls in the Neapolitan houses and even 
then honey is preferred. So you will not wonder I hastened to 
reply " Oh^ for dinner ! — but most certainly not ! " with fine 
shade of scorn in my tone, lest she think me quite plebeian — 
" for the breakfast to-morrow, Francesca ! " ** But, signorina, if 
we take the butter to-night, it is not fresh for the breakfast," 
she carefully explained. *' The butter I will buy when I come 
for the coffee and sugar and honey in the morning! " — giving 
basilisk glance at the shopkeeper who dared to smile. 

Was the coffee bought by the very ounce or pennyweight I 
wondered the next morning as we had it out in the sunshine of 
the garden under the orange and lemon trees. And if one 
dared ask for second pot and for another roll, would Fran- 
cesca have to rush down to the village on another marketing 
expedition before such request could be fulfilled ? — or for 
lump of sugar perhaps } But before I had found courage to run 
risk of upsetting the entire household in any such ruthless man- 
ner, Pasquale came to announce the yacht and men waiting 
below. 

We spent the day in making a gir6 of the entire island. The 
day was perfect — no sirocco. And although up in the villa, 
scaldini were needed and Mr. T. swore by all the saints he 
would have steam heat before another winter, the temperature 
is really extraordinarily mild for an island exposed on all sides 
to the sea and by many Capri is considered an ideal winter 
residence. 

Of course we had to see the Blue Grotto again. Che hellez^ 
za! It was really more sapphire — more wonderfully beautiful 
this time than a month ago, were that possible. As Alexander 
Dumas said when in 18S5 he made the Mediterranean trip in his 
own yacht with crew of nine men, the Blue Grotto was " as 
if God had pleased Himself by making a tent of a bit of the 
sky." And of course Dumas referred to the azure Neapolitan 
sky for surely that the only sky of world which could in 



100 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

any measure be comipared to the deep azzurra of this marvelous 
grotto. 

One seldom hears of any grotto at Capri except the famous 
Azzurra, but in our giro, we saw also the Grotta Verde in which 
the water is exquisite emerald. Here^ however, one has not 
the great fun of entering the grotto on crest of a wave through 
a tiny archway so low that one must duck their head, as is 
necessary in entering the Blue. Then there is also Grotta 
Rosa and Grotta Bianca — each wonderfully beautiful and 
within the White Grotto the Grotto Marvelous was discovered 
only few years ago. 

There are several other grottoes also — of queer formation 
but less beauty. We stopped here and there, putting off from 
the yacht each time into one of the little skiffs which we towed. 
At the Rose Grotto, the rose colored prospects so enchanted 
Maria that in leaving the yacht, she missed the boat as it rose 
on a wave and stepped off into the water, frightening herself 
terribly. She should know maid as simpatica as she, need have 
no fears of drowning as long as there is a man around. There 
were six that morning, counting the ragazzo tuffatore, and she 
was rescued almost before her feet were wet. These dare-devil 
ragazzi tuffatori, by the way, are the boys who dive in the 
Blue Grotto and for the nonce, turn themselves into silver in 
the magic depths of the water. To be a diver into the sap- 
phire pools of the Azzurra is ambition of each piccolo of Capri. 

We stopped at Punta Tragara, a small landing place and 
had lunch at the picturesque little cafe just above, with lovely 
view out over the scintillating water. Some girls en costume 
danced the Tarantella while we had coffee out on the terrace 
— dancing remarkably well. The dance has no end of grace 
in it, as danced by these people around Naples • — entirely 
changed from the mad tarantella danced in the fourteenth cen- 
tury when it was believed the music was best means of giving 
relief to those bitten by the tarantula, that huge spider named 
from the Italian town of Taranto. 

Near Punta Tragara are the Faraglioni — the three rocky 
cliffs which rise mysteriously out of the water, the central cliff 
having a wonderful archway through which small boats can 
pass. We in the yacht, however, were obliged to go around — 



r 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-XOTHING 101 

to my disappointment^ for to pass through the archway of the 
Faraglioni is quite as much part of seeing Capri as \isit to Blue 
Grotto. 

We made ascent of Solaro (1918 feet) the second day — 
driving to Anacapri and taking asini — (donkeys) from there. 
A beautiful excursion with the most heavenly view of the purple 
Apennines stretching in a great crescent, and nearer at hand_, 
just across the water. Naples climbing bravely up from the 
sapphire water, and Vesuvius bathed in amethystine hues. But 
around the crater hung those clouds which Xeapolitans know are 
premonitions of Sirocco — Vesuvius serves as a gigantic bar- 
ometer for the whole surrounding country. 

And true. Sirocco was blowing horridly the very next morn- 
ing. One gave out two breaths of vigorous life for each whiff 
of pure air inhaled. But we crossed early on the mail steamer 
to Tasso's Sorrento and spent the day there — wandering 
around the quaint little town (in which the little Torquato grew 
up a precocious child, speaking at the age of six months !) and 
visiting the Scula d'Arte which has been established by the 
Government in picturesque old convent. Here the tarsia (in- 
laid wood) is fashioned in all sorts of attractive articles, and 
the boys and girls at work in the school all seemed quite happy 
that we had come to ^isit them — foreigners do not come very 
often they told us shyly. " The forestieri had rather hunt the 
old palazzo where Tasso's sister lived ! " one old woman com- 
plained as she skillfully worked on large salad fork of olive 
wood. 

In the afternoon we made a beautiful promenade — en ven- 
ture, though it is a lovely three-mile walk — to the little village 
of Massa Lubreiise, where the women are famed for their 
beauty. The road is continuation of the beautiful drive from 
Castellamare to Sorrento — rival of the Salerno- Amalfi drive 
which is considered by so many to be more beautiful than the 
famous drive along the Riviera di Ponente or the drive along the 
now much talked of Riviera di Levanti. 

This morning we started early and drove from Sorrento to 

Castellamare enchantingly lovely alongside of vineyards and 

olive groves. There is also a tram line — sad incongruity. 
The morning was ideal — Sirocco had quite abated. The 



102 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

sparkling Golfo di Napoli as blue as water of Grotta Azzurra. 
The heavens I am sure^ even bluer. 

Castellamare is a great summer resort for the Neapolitans — 
the sea bathing is said to be splendid. On the hillsides are 
many lovely villas and there are beautiful walks also, as the 
town is not enclosed with the high walls such as shut out the 
views at Sorrento. Many Neapolitans have ville there, it being 
so accessible to Naples for men. 

We came from there by railway back to Naples, taking third 
class along with a young parroco of saintly countenance, a 
handsome peasant woman with gay handkerchief over her head 
and zoccoli (wooden shoes). Two men who looked quite like 
the banditti of a third-rate opera company completed the party. 
Of course seats in third class compartments are bare and hard 
and there is ever odor of garlic, but — che vuole } One is in 
Italy! 

The classic Tuscan is supposed to be like Greek or English 
to these peasants, but we dropped all finals after the manner 
of Neapolitans and used some Spanish to assist our vocabulary, 

— wise thought for as you may imagine our Italian is not 
very voluble as yet and does not embrace many of the six hun- 
dred odd dialects into which it is divided. I, fortunately, had 
a large box of dates we had bought ini Sorrento, and these Maria 
passed to the whole compartment with the signorina's compli- 
ments — Italian etiquette ! This served very cleverly to break 
the ice for the two signore wrapped in rugs and wearing hats 

— but real hats ! and accompanied by Tuscan maid, had at first 
quite embarrassed the whole compartment. All, except the 
parroco whose eye was taken by neither American women and 
Paris chapeaux, nor mamma's gold mesh bag on which the sup- 
posed bandits admiringly gazed. The parroco was devoutly 
wrapt in his breviary reading the Latin half aloud, for the Roman 
Church you know requires her priests read the Canonical Hours 
forming every word with their lips even if they do not read 
aloud. I would never for a moment have dared disturb him. 
But Maria offered the box of dates to him first of all, gracefully 
murmuring something about compliments of the ladies. There- 
upon he became suddenly aware of our presence and having 
thanked us graciously, took a date. This set example for 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 103 

the others since it is considered among the peasants etiquette 
to refuse as well as to offer. And even with the example^ 
the woman in bright handkerchief needed some urging. The 
banditti however followed after the priest without hesitation 
and rose from their seats to make gallant bows first to mamma, 
then to me and were about to conclude with Maria when, — che 
diavolo! sudden lurch of the train threw them into their seats 
entirely spoiling the effect. It was extremely embarrassing. 
But to laugh impossible, and mamma tactfully smoothed the 
situation by gracefully inquiring if they were going to Naples. 
Whereupon they quite lost their cut-throat appearance and in 
place of the bandits we had strongly suspected them to be, they 
proved most gallant cavaliers — insisting when we reached 
Naples on taking our bags and seeing us into our cab! 

That moment in Naples was truly puzzling. Should one pay 
them for carrying the bags as one would a facchino? Yet to 
offer money to your traveling companions with whom you had 
so recently shared your dates seemed truly indelicate ! I was 
quite nervosa — I confess it — over the situation as mamma 
opened her purse. But to my immense relief, she drew out, in- 
stead of lire — two of her cards ! I am sure you'll laugh and 
declare the poor fellows were doubtless much disappointed. 
But could you only have seen their evident pleasure and the 
courtly grace with which they stood hat in hand as we drove 
away, you would surely admit mercenary thoughts very far from 
their minds, and that to have offered pay would have been most 
indelicate ! 

They had told us that they were coming into Naples to make 
arrangements about going to America this Spring. They had 
about decided on Buonas Ay res, but after asking many questions 
concerning California and listening with rapture while we elo- 
quently set forth with Maria's assistance, the glories of that 
one state of our country which resembles in small measure this 
Italia adorata, they had by the time we parted, about decided 
on California. Who knows but that we shall sometime run 
across them out there — working perhaps, in your own uncle's 
great vineyards. More likely though, if perchance we do ever 
see them in California, it will be as owners of their own vine- 
yard, for these peasants around Naples are the most industrious 



104 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

people in the world. The vinej^ards and orange and lemon 
groves all along the coast are but glimpse of their patience and 
affectionate labor, being made by hand into marvels of fertility- 
out of the bare limestone cliff. 

The parroco too, his office finished, was much interested in 
America. He had a brother in Pittsburg — a priest also. He 
himself, would like to be sent to work among his people in the 
United States — but God had wiUed that he remain to die in 
Italy. And as he spoke so calmly of Death, we noticed how very 
thin he was — thin almost to emaciation. Tuberculous perhaps, 
though it is hard to think of this awful disease here on this 
sun-inundated coast. He left us at Torre Annunziata. 
" Madonna go with you ! " he said. And we each answered 
reverently, knowing we would none of us see him again, " And 
with you, Father ! " — the peasant woman adding devoutly, 
'' Cento mill' anni, padre mio! " which is to say, *' May you 
have a hundred thousand years' freedom from Purgatory ! " 
Yet his large spiritual eyes, beautiful with mysteries of which 
we knew little, seemed already looking beyond Purgatory — 
into Paradise itself. 

The woman was a splendid creature — coming to Naples for 
first time in her life though living for thirty years less than 
twenty miles away. She was coming to serve as halia — a wet 
nurse. These are the splendidly gowned maids we see with chil- 
dren so often in the Villa. They are always strong peasant 
women, from the mountains or country and generally stay with 
a child until it is two or three years old. They are given their 
outfit as soon as they arrive, — wonderfully picturesque costume, 
gay colored gown, fichu and aprons of net and lace as rich as 
the family can afford, and for the head, massive pins of silver 
or gold which fastens to their dark hair a great bow of ribbon 
— blue or red for boy bambini and pink for girls — from which 
long broad streamers hang to the feet or fly in the breeze in 
extremely picturesque effect. Doubtless down in the Villa we 
shall often see this woman of to-day, no longer in* wooden 
shoes and gay handkerchief wrapped around her head, but 
brave in elegant stuff gown and heavy silk ribbons — some tiny 
Neapolitan resting on lace pillow in her arms. Baby carriages 
or go-carts are items undreamed of in this Old World Napoli. 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 105 

Indeed no English mother has yet found Italian nurse-maid 
brave enough to wheel one ! 

And so you see the seventeen miles from Castellamare to 
Naples were full of picturesque inside as well as out, for the 
railroad skirts the sapphire waters and the way is full of 
charm — orange trees loaded with balls of gold fruit, olives 
already whitening to silver in this warm sun of the South, 
humble homes of fisher-folk with confusion of nets, old sails 
and baskets drying in the sun, and after passing Vesuvius and 
Pompeii, maccaroni hung out to dry everywhere. 

It seems very much like home to be back again in this great 
wonderful Naples, full of vivid colors and vivid life, and we've 
made the corso on Toledo this afternoon con amore. Surely 
no city in the world hath charm that Naples hath! 



But when our swallows fly hack to the South, 
To the sweet South, to the sweet South, 
The tears may come again into my eyes 

On the old wise, ' 

And the sweet name to my mouth." 

" Italia/' — Christiana G. Rossetti 



TO G. 

Naples, January — 

YESTERDAY we spent beautiful day wandering over the 
Phlegrean Fields, as that history-laden country to west 
of Napoli is called. How we wished you might be with us ! 
You could hare combined your love of prowling around old 
ruins with your adoration of beautiful views in ideal manner. 
I fancy too, you might have been rather interested in the oy- 
sters of Lucrinus Lake — oysters such as graced many a feast 
of Lucullus and famous Roman epicures. 

F. and Mr. T. were with us en voiture, Maria and Pasquale 
following in carrozella with Pietro. F. thought of taking the 
car, yet that would have been great mistake since an auto is 
positively useless for prowling through the intricate, slippery 
little streets such as we found at Baia — even the horses slipped 
so badly at times we were glad to use our own feet. The honk 
of a motor horn seldom, if ever, breaks in upon the animated 
chatter held in these old streets among the women of blue- 
black hair and twinkling ear-rings. 

We went by way of Fuorigrotto, a typical Southern village 
just beyond the long Grotta Nuova — a village where all chil- 
dren of the place rushed out to perform stunts for our amuse- 
ment. Luckily, in looking up Phlegrean Fields in Baedeker 
just before we left, his hint that an abundant supply of copper 
coins should be taken on country excursions had caught our eye 
and we had robbed our gold-laced, pompous old portier of soldi. 
So I think each black-eyed child of Fuorigrotto must have had 

106 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 107 

soldo' s worth of happiness yesterday while we ourselves had — 
who knows how many fervent blessings invoked upon our heads 
by fond parents and picturesque ear-ringed grandmothers. Of 
course it's a bad plan — I hear you declaring — and no wonder 
Italy is full of beggars if this is the way all forestieri behave ! 
But what will you here in Italy where bambini spring up like 
flowers along the wayside — where small ragazze in sabots with 
great tinkling gold hoops in their ears toss bouquets into your 
lap^ while ragazzi turn hand-springs with rapidity to put to 
shame many a skillful acrobat of America? But when one 
black-eyed imp^ who like Perugino's angels looked as though he 
might be in midst of mumps, set up such a howl as a cherub- 
faced friend relieved him of his soldo, that the entire adult por- 
tion of Fuori grotto appeared like magic at windows, balconies 
and doorways, we who were like this Young Italy herself — 
hands full of flowers and coflfers empty ! made brave dash for 
Pozzuoli, gaining the road at perilous risk of murdering sev- 
eral dozen bimbi, and strutting cocks. 

Yet with Fuorigrotto behind us we were kings of the road — 
free as the little feathered brothers and sisters of St. Francis 
who sang along the way and in tops of the tall umbrella pines. 
And if they were in as gay, good spirits as we ourselves it is 
not to be wondered at that their Matins sounded so hearty. Oh, 
the charm of these Italian roads ! Air with subtle breath of 
cobalt Tyrrhenian — sapphire sky — scintillating sun — smiling 
country ! Can the Umbrian roads over which St. Francis trav- 
eled singing the mystic love and glory of his betrothed, — his 
sweet Lady Poverty, be half so full of charm, I wonder, as these 
roads of the warm South where the sun shines so radiant and 
splendid — " Symbol of Thee, O Most Highest ! " as St. Francis' 
glorious Canticle of Creation runs. Surely Umbria cannot boast 
half the charms of this Campania! Or is it perhaps, only my 
ecstatic love of this old South, so full of mystery and legends 
as well as of mad beauty. 

Have you ever', heard, I wonder, of the Grotta del Cane which 
lies out from Naples near Pozzuoli? That was our first stop 
— an entirely new Neapolitan mystery to me though they say 
Mark Twain declared everybody had written of the old Grotto 
from Pliny down to Smith. But as you and I don't read mueh 



108 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

Pliny and have read so many Smiths we couldn't remember a 
word from any of them to save our lives, perhaps you won't 
be bored. For really the thing impressed me tremendously 
and is an uncanny sort of sight — that Grotta del Cane. Since 
in order that tourists may appreciate how deadly are the gases 
arising within its walls, the guides usually carry a dog along 
which is made insensible in only a few seconds. Or if tourists 
be skeptical (as to be sure most Americans are!) in a few 
additional seconds, and for small additional fee of a franc the 
most obliging guide will have the poor dog quite dead. Pos- 
sibly dogs are running short as already this has been a great 
month for tourists — at least our debonair guide offered no 
such experiments along with his marvelous linguistic accom- 
plishments. Yet that we might feel we had found the place 
worth both our time and lire he regaled us with blood-curdling 
tales of how this old Grotto was used by the monster Nero for 
imprisoning poor gladiators or those who had incurred !his 
wrath. Five minutes in there with door closed was certain 
death. Cries of the terrified imprisoned soon grew faint — and 
ceased. Our guide grew so tragic both of face and voice at 
these points in his stories that we grew wild-eyed ourselves — 
much to his satisfaction no doubt! To prove his statements as 
to the deadly power of the gases he lit and relit his torch. 
Ecco! the noble signori should see that he, — even he, Pas- 
quale Benedetto, spoke true ! And true — if held even several 
feet above ground the light went out at once, so the gases 
are evidently deadly enough. But as to the Grotto having been 
used by Nero — chi sa? F. seemed to think Nero would have 
considered death by asphyxiation altogether too pleasant punish- 
ment for one who had displeased him however slightly. Dur- 
ing the whole thrilling discourse we noticed F. held his hand 
firmly on Noble's collar — his beautiful Borzoi which he brought 
down from Paris when last there. F. doubtless fancied that 
in ardor to prove all merits of his uncanny old Grotto that 
Mephistophelean countenanced guide would as soon seize upon 
a noble Borzoi as upon a humble yellow cur. But 'tis said 
these Neapolitans of Mephistophelean face have always hearts 
of Archangels — one needs fear only those with soulful eyes 
and countenances of Archangels ! This being of course only 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 109 

one of the mysteries of Napoli as unfathomable as its blue 
heavens. 

From the Grotto it is not far to the old city gate of the 
ancient town of Pozzuoli — the Puteoli where St. Paul with 
St. Luke and Aristarchus landed from the " Castor and Pol- 
lux/' you know, and spent sev«n days in preaching to the people. 
For this reason alone Pozzuoli would be an intensely interesting 
old place, yet it is full of noble ruins as well as history; since 
even before the Roman days the merchants of Tyre had made 
it great center of trade — the most important city of all Italy ! 
But far more interesting than ruins of temples and baths or 
the Serapeum, the splendid old market house, were the thirteen 
great piles which may yet be seen standing in the blue waters 
of the bay — the piles which once supported the pier on which 
St. Paul entered Italy. And in driving around one may also 
see remains of the old Appian road over which the Saint trav- 
eled to Rome, after his seven days among the people of Poz- 
zuoK. 

Indeed it would seem rather more appropriate at first thought, 
that the Pozzuoli Cathedral be called after that first famous 
Saint who tarried here, rather than after San Proculo — fellow 
martyr of the blessed San Gennaro. Mr. T. and I went in to 
see the picture on the High Altar — a lovely work of Pietro 
da Cortona, though often attributed to Guido Reni. Pergolese 
has a monument here in this time-darkened Cathedral — immortal 
Pergolese who sought health in old Pozzuoli yet died when only 
twenty-six, leaving us on his death-bed that most beautiful 
Stabat Mater. Could St. Paul have known as he journeyed on 
to Rome that one day a Stabat Mater to be sung by the whole 
world was to rise out of the Pozzuoli which then boasted temples 
to Diana, Neptune and strange gods, surely he would have 
thanked God and taken courage even as he did later when the 
new* Christians came out from Rome and met him at Three Tav- 
erns. Yet perhaps as he passed out the gates of the gay, pagan 
city and heard the loud shouts rising from the great Pozzuoli 
Amphitheater, he foresaw that gladiators and wild beasts and 
naval combats were not alway to furnish sport within its mas- 
sive arches, but that followers of Christ Whose Name he 
preached must also suffer there and die. 



110 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

It is this still splendid old Amphitheater which is to most 
people the greatest point of interest of Pozzuoli to-day, for it 
is the largest of its kind — able to seat more than 30,000. Its 
wonderful state of preservation enhances its great interest as 
a ruin — makes it the show place without which many tourists 
would never take time for Pozzuoli. 

Our girl guide there was wonderfully attractive — a splen- 
did Diana-like creature. Pasquale lost his heart at once. Mr. 
T. declared she was the very model he wanted for his next 
picture, while F. delighted her by asking a thousand questions, 
paying rapt attention to her tales of horror, interspersed with 
her answers and profound knowledge of apparently all things 
under the shining Pozzuoli sun. Maria heard the Diana ex- 
claiming the '^ Inglesi '* this and the " Inglesi ** that, until she 
could stand it no longer — Maria dislikes the Inglesi with the 
same ardor with which Pasquale hates the Tedesci — and trans- 
fixing the Diana with her solemn eyes, remarked with enunci- 
ation provokingly distinct, "If the signorina knew foreigners 
as well as she does her Amphitheater she would not mistake 
noble Americani for Inglesi! *' The poor Diana was quite with- 
ered — for moment. Then tossed her head with elaborate ear- 
rings flashing disdain in the sunlight as she saw Pasquale bestow 
look of decided disapproval on Maria, and murmuring a hasty 
" Scusi, signori! " plunged into some new tale for F. and Mr. 
T., including Pasquale by means of adroit eye-play altogether 
maddening to poor Maria and me who meekly followed across 
the arena. 

The Diana's ear-rings were wonderful old things. I became 
so intent on watching them boldly flashing in the sun as she 
made expressive play of hands, that I all but made a mis-step 
which in another moment would have plunged me down a deep 
opening used in flooding the arena for those wonderful Roman 
naval combats. These poorer classes very often put their savings 
or Lotto winnings into some handsome piece of jewelry, consider- 
ing it much safer investment than placing it with Banks. 
They are all fond of ear-rings — indeed ear-rings seem a neces- 
sity to these dark-eyed women of olive skin and blue-black hair 
and we often see curiously exquisite ones. I fancy after all, 
most the attraction of our Diana lay within those bold brave 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 111 

ear-rings of hers which completely overshadowed Maria's gold 
hoops and even mamma's pearls. As for me I intend wearing 
my handsome coral pendants set in platinum when next I set 
out sight-seeing — at least before I venture near that Pozzuoli 
amphitheater again! 

And it is such an intensely interesting old ruin that we mean 
to go again soon. The Royal box where Nero and other rulers 
once sat to watch the sport — Imperial entrance way — en- 
trance for Senators and Consuls — another for the people — 
dungeons for the prisoners — cages for the animals with which 
gladiators fought are all to be seen. It was within this old 
arena where now the flowers and grass grow and Diana of 
flashing ear-rings holds court, that San Gennaro, the holy pro- 
tector of Napolif was thrown in vain to wild beasts. Our Diana 
actually had grace to make sign of the Cross as she repeated 
the story of the miracle and her ear-rings ceased for a moment 
to flash. But I was quite happy to bid her au revoir and start 
for the Solfatara, though there is nothing to see there and the 
Amphitheater with its old Corinthian pillars kindly swathed in 
vines is a lovely place for lingering and sketching. Yet to be 
deserted by your escorts for peasant girl guide is, you will ad- 
mit, little short of enraging ! 

At Baia we drove first to curious old Grotto called Nero's 
Stoves where there are springs of boiling water into which 
Maria and the guide placed some eggs. For in spite of Baia's 
bewitching beauty, we were, you see, like veriest Philistines — • 
thinking of lunch and far more interested in watching those 
eggs come out of the water (after only a moment boiled as 
hard as could be!) rather than in raving over views or quoting 
Horace from our guide books. 

We had lunch among some picturesque ruins with old slab of 
marble for table which perhaps once embellished Villa of Nero 
himself. For it was to this Golden Shore with its splendid 
climate, limpid southern skies, superb scenery and hot springs 
that Nero, Julius Caesar, Pompey, Caligula, Caracalla and hun- 
dreds of other old Romans of whom history loves to make men- 
tion, came each year. Yet shades of old Romans are rather 
difiicult to conjure in the Baia of to-day, especially while one 
is engaged in eating lunch, — even though the eggs had been 



112 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

cooked in Nero's stoves, and the gelati which Calflish had put 
up for us was accompanied by dolci very similar no doubt to 
that served at the feasts where Nero sat down at noon to eat and 
drink and continued till midnight. And while mamma and Maria 
cooked mushrooms in the chafing dish, F., — who adores them 
you remember perhaps, reminded us that it was of eating mush- 
rooms that Tiberius died. Since ours were canned and imported 
from France his subtle hint was of little avail, though I became 
so interested in watching the girls and men whom Pasquale had 
found to dance the Tarantella for us, that I turned later to find 
my own portion mysteriously disappeared. 

How they danced — those four, sun-burned, smiling-eyed 
people of Baia ! Danced as though they were quite mad — not 
from bite of tarantula but from sheer joy of living in the bold, 
hot sunshine. There was a young god — a perfect Pan — to 
play for them. A young genius who drew his bow so as to 
bring out all those daring little cries of the heart — a trick 
known only to an Italian. 

Later we went out on the bay with an old wrinkled fisherman. 
He too, wore ear-rings — dear-delight it seems of all who dwell 
on these Tyrrhenian shores ! The bay is ethereally lovely — a 
dream of beauty. No wonder Horace declared it unsurpassed, 
though of coursej I myself can't agree and love far too well this 
mad, bold beauty of Napoli's bay to lose my heart to Baia. 
Yet by many Baia is loved better — its beauty is so exquisite. 
Yesterday it was quite enchanting with its waters so clear that 
we were able to see the old pillars and ruins of some of the 
ancient Roman villas down underneath the cobalt sea over which 
we moved. Oh, the mystery of these old ruins ! — who knows 
what magic romance is not concealed by these old stones and 
pillars which lie buried by the waters of the bay? For Baia 
was only a small resort, but so anxious the wealthy nobles of 
the day to have a villa at this fashionable watering place, that 
for* want of room they sometimes built far out into the sea using 
these submarine foundations which are yet to be discerned. 

It is difficult to picture the splendid magnificence of the 
place of those days — so altogether foreign to its pastoral sim- 
plicity of to-day when emperors and nobles have for centuries 
given place to humble folk as picturesque as were the others 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 113 

pompous, just as temples to Diana and Venus have given place 
to shrines to Madonna- — Maria stella del mare before whom 
votive offerings from many a rescued fisherman are placed each 
year. For the bay of Baia is not always calm and sleeping even 
though she has lost all glory of great naval harbor as was hers 
in those days of zenith when handsome galleys, luxurious barges 
and countless ships lay always on her waters. 'Twas across 
this same Baiaean Bay you know that the mad Caligula with 
tyrannical caprice built his marvelous bridge of boats, pressing 
into service - all vessels to be found — surpassing even Xerxes 
and Darius by his stupendous feat. 

And it was for a great naval celebration here, you know, that 
Agrippina came to Baia at Nero's invitation. Then after five 
days of the naval festival, you remember how Nero prepared 
the parting banquet for his mother, lasting long into the night, 
so that when she came to leave she found her own galley had 
been disabled and was induced to embark on the treacherous 
barge. We, out in the bay yesterday, managed with assistance 
of the clever imaginations with which we're all blessed, to pic- 
ture the whole affair. The elegantly decked barge — the star- 
light night and calm sea — Agrippina and her lady-in-waiting 
chatting over the splendid celebration and festivities they had 
enjoyed as Nero's guests. Then the given signal when the 
barge fell to pieces — the miraculous escape of Agrippina into 
the water — her wonderful presence of mind in not crying out 
and so draw on herself the blows of the conspirators — her 
great efforts to swim until at last she was picked up by a fisher- 
man. Just such a weather-beaten old fisherman perhaps as the 
one with whom we were ruthlessly skimming over very scene of 
her torture, quite too taken with the beauty on all sides to be 
very much in sympathy with any agonies Agrippina must have 
suffered that awful night. 

When we came ashore we saw site of the villa where later 
she was pitilessly stabbed to death. The country is studded 
with these historic sites, with ruins of temples and baths, theaters 
and ville. Yet who could be very enthusiastic over old ruins 
when at hand lies a great shimmering bay which Master Horace 
has declared loveliest in the world? I fancy that if Rome were 
blessed as this country round Napoli, we would hear much less 



114 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

of the wonderful old forums and baths which now lead tourists 
such mad chase. 

Coming home we stopped at a little tavern for oysters from 
Lucrinus Lake — famous for its oysters in ancient days and its 
beds again revived. From here many an oyster has been taken 
for Lucullus' and Tiberius' feasts — Tiberius being as fond of 
oysters it seems as of mushrooms. It was he, wasn't it, who 
ordered Sabinus to write a story in which a mushroom and oys- 
ter figured as principal characters.^ Are the mushrooms of the 
Phlegrean fields as delicious as the oysters one might readily 
understand how Tiberius could die from eating them — not be 
served with the wrong kind either! 

But both mushrooms and oysters pale in sight of the dark-eyed 
folk of these shores when there is prospect of capitoni, the fat 
luscious eel which is the great Christmas delicacy for all the 
Kingdom of Naples and in such demand at this festa that price 
soars high, high ! But never so high as to be beyond temptation 
to a Neapolitan. Or when capitoni are not to be had for love 
or lire there are adorable young octopuses fried in oil to golden 
crisp which are infinitely preferable to even feast of mush- 
rooms and oysters. " Adorable " I might explain is the Neapol- 
itan attribute to an octopus — not mine. For to me one of 
these very adorable octopuses, be they ever so young and tender, 
looks much as though it might have been fashioned following 
Leonardo's rule for a chimera — head of a mastiff, eye of a cat, 
ears of a porcupine, mouth of a hare, brows of a lion, temples 
of an old cock and neck of a sea tortoise ! How such an animal 
ever manages to tempt a Neapolitan is but another of the mil- 
lion mysteries of Napoli. At our little tavern two debonair 
carabineers were feasting on one of these same adorable crea- 
tures with glad accompaniment of two lordly flasks of vino del 
paese costing, according to the prices inscribed outside the 
Osteria, eight soldi per litre! They left just ahead of us mak- 
ing us such splendid courtesies I quite forgavcj the octopus which 
had graced their table and leered in my face until he had been 
eaten to the very last eye. 

They were handsome young soldiers in spite their tastes, and 
Pasquale having made friends with them through the magic of 
Mr. T.'s cigarettes, we were honored by their mounted escort 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 115 

as far as entrance to the Infernal Regions — that being nothing 
more serious, you must understand, than a sort of grotto on edge 
of Lake Averno mentioned by Virgil as the place of descent 
into Hell. The whole thing is quite disappointing if you have 
Virgil's vivid descriptions of the spot in mind — " No bird un- 
harmed o'er that dread orifice might steer its flight " and so on. 
We saw birds winging their way homeward so joyously and un- 
harmed though passing directly over the gate of Hell, that F. 
was much disgusted — declared Virgil had tricked him out 
another dozen oysters ! A statement highly amusing since F. 
had several dozen of Lucrinenses carefully stowed away in the 
tea-basket in the carriage. 

But had we found Avernus in truth very brink of Hell, the 
drive home in the sunset with visions of exquisite Baia and Poz- 
zuoli bays which are hardly lost sight of before the matchless 
crescent-coasted Bay of Parthenope appears, was quite sufficient 
to drive all terror of Infernal Regions from our hearts. Yet 
alas, for that poor Proserpine who is still held in those same In- 
fernal Regions — cut off from all joys of gold sunshine and 
cerulean skies ! 



"... the true Italy, that beloved and ancient land to 
which we owe almost everything that is precious and valuable in 
our lives, and in which still, if we be young, we\ may find all our 
dreams.'* 



-Edward Hutton 



* * 



TO M. 



Naples, January — 
Jl/TAMMA MIA! what a day — as prosaic as any bona fide 
J. VA. tourist's. F. has been playing devoted courier to Lady 
M., a dear distant cousin from England who arrived in this 
Paradise last week — an antipatica creature who sees beggars 
and dirt and superstition at every turn. Does one suggest that 
some dark-eyed imp following the carriage is altogether pic- 
turesque or that some tycked-away little church is rich in won- 
derful votive offerings, she never fails to quote, " All that 
glisters is not gold " — perfectly maddening ! She uses it at 
every turn until F. swears by all the gods who once dwelt on 
these siren shores, that unless she soon takes her ladyship off 
to Rome he shall certainly be compelled to request her not to 
be so awfully literal with her Shakespeare — kindly substitute 
" glitter " as does rest of the world, since " glister " savors too 
much of " blister " to be appropriate for use in connection with 
this queenly Napoli. 

Between Lady M. and a Baptist minister who arrived sim- 
ultaneously, armed with introductions from two of F.'s adoring 
Vermont aunts, poor F. has been on the mad chase. To-day 
we mercifully relieved F. of the Iconoclast — as we have dubbed 
the Baptist. He, having graciously admitted St. Paul and St. 
Luke probably landed there since Scripture so states, desired 
to visit Pozzuoli to-day and have F. guide him over that land 
of the gods to the extreme West, on this very morning which 
her ladyship had chosen for visiting Santa Maria del Carmine 

and having F. explain to her in just what portion of the old 

116 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 117 

convent Masaniello was murdered after his mad rebellion. She 
is deeply interested in the whole aiFair — sympathizes with the 
fiendish Masaniello and always closes her mention of him with 
a " Poor fellow ! he soon found out that ' all that glisters is not 
gold' ! " She has it in mind to write a short history of the 
rebellion — as you may have already suspected Lady M. is lit- 
erary. So when she announced her intention to go through 
Santa Maria del Carmine under F.'s personal escort, what for 
him to do but sweetly accept the implied compliment to his 
ability to serve her, gnash his teeth in private and dispose of 
the Iconoclast as best he could — to poor mammina and me ! 

Mr. T. is working madly at Capri, — pays no attention to F.'s 
frantic messages pleading that he come to the rescue. As for 
mamma and me being of any assistance in the role of couriers 
— 'tis quite absurd since we haven't yet found time for seeing 
half the sights here and F. himself declares us to be as pro- 
voking as that Anatole France who confessed the world was 
welcome to all dry facts of history as long as they would leave 
the romance for him. And, alas, hard dry facts are what both 
Lady M. and the Iconoclast demand — not romance ! In fact we 
have given the Iconoclast his title simply because he is forever 
tearing down anything which can not stand on a bold fact of his- 
tory. He scorns the romantic fact that this Napoli was first 
founded by the divine Parthenope — doubts that Virgil lies buried 
here on this sunny shore as he requested of the Emperor — smiled 
pitying when in driving past CasteV delV Ovo yesterday I took 
pains to tell him that it took its name not from its oval shape 
but from fact that Virgil with his magic arts had builded it upon 
an Gg^ ! 

So considering the nature with which we had to deal you'll 
not wonder that we sat up last night till convent bells were ring- 
ing for Matins, poring over all the guides F. could lay hands 
on in Naples, in mad endeavor to store up enough of dry facts 
regarding Pozzuoli and the romantic land of that coast as would 
last us through the morning with our iconoclastic patron. 

We drove him there by way of the superb Corniche road of 
Posilipo, trusting the beauty would so entrance him that dry 
history would sink into the background. Alas no! and we who 
are saturated with the mysteries and traditions and legends of 



118 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

this adorable land were called upon to give and take dates an^^ 
cold facts without mercy. He knows just how many Italians 
can neither read nor write and all that — bewailed poverty and 
ignorance as we drove him over what is undoubtedly one of the 
most splendid drives in the worlds until we were ready to toss 
him into the Tyrrhenian at our feet. That being an art which 
died with Tiberius^ we contented ourselves in reminding him as 
did shrewd Cardinal Antonelli when Matthew Arnold bewailed 
in much the same strain as our Iconoclast, " — But you will find 
they are generally correct in matters of good taste." A state- 
ment however our patron accepted in much the same spirit as 
he did the statement regarding CasteV delV Ovo! 

Per Dio! but we had a morning. And never was Neapolitan 
morning more enchanting. Little brothers and sisters of St. 
Francis chanting their praises boisterously — sirens and tritons 
sporting in the waters. The whole land was full to the brim 
with mysteries and Old World tradition. We — en tourist! 
Oh, the sin of holding one's eyes on a guide-book — their minds 
on cold facts on such a morning! 

But happily we were two and one could talk wisely while the 
other made frantic search for a date. Alas, that F. or his dear 
aunts might not have heard us ! I, you may be sure, ventured 
nothing regarding sirens or sibyls ; politely refrained from 
pointing out the entrance of Hell through whose gate Ulysses 
passed into shades of infernal regions; cruelly silenced our 
loquacious guide who wanted me to translate to the excellent 
signore his stories of blessed San Gennaro and his many miracles, 
and contented myself in talking knowingly of St. Paul, while 
mamma bravely attended to Roman history. 

I boldly related facts of the Holy Saints' voyage up the 
Italian coast from Rhegium, pictured their turn at Cape Min- 
erva, just opposite Capri, at which point their vessel was recog- 
nized by those waiting at Pozzuoli since the Alexandrine corn- 
ships were the only vessels which did not lower their top-sails 
when rounding this Cape (a fact I bravely called upon Seneca 
to prove!). At last their arrival at the pier of the old Puteoli, 
then at her zenith. So far, so good, and having brought the 
Holy Apostle safely to Rome after his seven days at Pozzuoli 
(carefully refraining of course from mentioning his visit to 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 119 

Virgil's grave and all other ancient tradition!) I began to feel 
I had cleverly redeemed myself and that reports of me which 
our Iconoclast would carry home to F.'s dear aunts were not to 
be altogether hopeless. Indeed so careful was I not to offend 
our patron that I forebore all mention of that blessed Saint 
Ignatius whom some think the little child Christ called to His 
side in teaching the lesson of humility^ and who also came 
through this old Pozzuoli to suffer martyrdom at Rome. 

But alas, that I had not the good judgment to leave St. Paul 
at Rome writing his Epistles to the Churches, but must mention 
as we sat over our Lucrinus Lake oysters, that if Saint Paul 
between his release and his death visited Spain as he intended, 
it seemed very probable that he might also have been one of 
the first Christians to Britain. Heaven protect one unread in 
Church History and the Lives of the early Fathers from raising 
such uncertain issue with a sectarian Protestant who must at 
once reject all things not found in Holy Scripture. In vain 
my argument that Saint Clement, who was St. Paul's dear 
friend and fellow laborer, wrote that St. Paul had traveled " as 
far to the west as possible." Saint Clement, though one of the 
first Bishops of Rome, was at once rej ected as unscriptural — ■ 
though what import scripture had in the question I failed to 
see ! Even supposition that Linus and Claudia, who talked with 
St. Paul and were converted, were children of the British King 
Caractacus who was brought prisoner to Rome and returned 
as the first missionaries at St. Paul's own request was but re- 
ceived with smile of pity. Turning into almost horror as we 
stopped talking to give an alms to a son of St. Francis who came 
through the room, and who unsuspecting the indignation he was 
causing in the Protestant's heart, quietly handed him Italian copy 
of that sweet hymn of Fortunatus, Ave Maris Stella, so popular 
here among Madonna's people dwelling on these Campanian 
shores. Indeed our Iconoclast was so full of both indignation 
and dismay as he gazed after the friar, of earth-brown robe and 
naked feet, that I desisted in my translating 

** Hail, thou star of ocean ! 

Portal of the sky! 

Ever Virgin Mother — " 



120 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

and called in a gay Mephistophelean countenanced youth to 
chant Funicoli Funicola in attempt to cheer him. The nonsense 
of the chant mingling with the sweet words of Ave, Maris Stella 
as always religion and deviltry, smiles and tears are to be found 
mingled in this mysterious old Napoli. 

Poor youth! he was quite abashed when at the Iconoclast's 
bidding we demanded his age, his occupation, whether he could 
read and write, had he any desire to go to America and other 
prosaic questions entirely out of place on these Old World 
shores — at least never to be required of a sun-browned young 
god such as our chanter of Funicoli Funicola. I translated the 
astonishing replies to the Iconoclast who scribbled down each 
item with serious face in serious looking note book. Fearing 
lest the notes be used in urging Protestant missionaries into this 
land of the gods, I confess I dared not always translate ver- 
batim ! But surely this old Italy with her Catholicism dating 
back even before St. Paul reached these shores, can not stand 
for Baptists — not at least do their methods of warfare have 
likeness to those of the Methodists now storming Rome. 

On the whole Funicoli Funicola was failure so far as our 
Iconoclast was concerned. But during the drive home we 
flooded him with such wealth of dates taken from Conyb^are and 
Howson concerning St. Paul and facts of prosaic Roman history 
of that romantic coast, that before we reached Naples we had 
managed by dint of earnest effort to retrieve much we lost dur- 
ing lunch. 

But, mamma mia! we could have held romance and mystery in 
background not another hour. I was on very point of inquiring 
if the city lying at our feet did not strike him as wearing the 
same smile as wears that Neapolitan Mona Lisa Giocondo, who 
very likely flirted with Leonardo in much the same manner this 
sirenic Naples mysteriously flirts with the cobalt waters of her 
bay and the sapphire skies. Yet the gods did not desert me — 
as I had been compelled for the nonce to desert them. Pegasus 
himself lent wings to our tired horses, enabling Pietro to dash 
up to the hotel entrance before the question had escaped me and 
our Iconoclast was turned safely over to F. who — povero! — 
had had as prosaic a morning with Lady M. and her ceaseless 
search of Masaniellic data as we ourselves had known with the 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 121 

Iconoclast. Heaven permit that they each soon forsake this 
adorable place .where mysteries and enchantments and super- 
stitions overlie all facts — where all things *' glister " and one is 
too happy to care whether or no they be true gold. 

And really I wouldn't be surprised if F. had^ innocently 
enough, started the Iconoclast off for Rome at early date. We 
had them up here for dinner out of pity for long-suffering F. 
and while Lady M. made notes on her tyrant hero and I've been 
engaged scribbling you, mammina, F. and the Iconoclast have 
been in midst of theological discussion — unsafe topic, but safer 
no doubt in this instance than talk of sirens and sibyls or Nea- 
politan simpatia and smiles ! F., though one would seldom sus- 
pect it, is wonderfully well read in theology — would that he 
had been at hand this morning when I called upon Patristic 
authority in endeavor to persuade my Protestant Iconoclast that 
St. Paul might very probably have been father of the Church in 
England ! But F.'s knowledge and apt quoting from early 
fathers seemed quite hopeless to-night with our Iconoclast — 
the most unimpeachable witness to early Church practices failed 
to make slightest impression. Yet when F. sweetly assured him 
that baptism by immersion as practiced by his sect is never to 
be found portrayed in any of the ancient mosaics and frescoes 
of the churches in Italy or in the paintings of the Catacombs, 
but always by affusion, our Iconoclast was decidedly dismayed 
— thinks he will surely find F. in error and is anxious to explore 
the Roman catacomKs as soon as possible. Fare him well and 
may Lady M. and her Shakespeare wing away also! 



Dear Naples! the very sound of thy sweet name. 
Brings thoughts of flowers and sun and sapphire sky/* 

— M. P. 



^ * 



To M. 

Naples, January — 

A REACTION to-day from all prosaicness of yesterday. F., 
Lady M. and the Iconoclast were off early to Capri — 
poor Mr. T ! — and we've had the day for basking like lizards 
in the sun, haunting little streets redolent with garlic and in- 
cense and lingering in the great Cathedral bewildering with its 
magnificence. A day as different from yesterday as this warm 
chiaroscuro of Italy is unlike our own dull ochreous-colored 
America. It's true I had to attend a class at the noble school 
this morning and puzzle my poor head with some stupid dates 
connected with the reign of that Ferdinand II — that king who 
had manners of a boor and no doubt well deserved the exclama- 
tion of his Queen, " I thought I had married a King — not a 
lazzarone," when he pulled away a chair on which she was about 
to sit down, causing her to fall to the floor in inelegant fash- 
ion. (Her exclamation seems rather hard on the poor lazzaroni, 
however — at least I'm ready to swear there's not one to-day 
with such manners in all this adorable Napoli.) Yet even 
dates and a history lecture are quite romantic compared with all 
the guide-book knowledge of yesterday — just as our noble lit- 
tle professor with the dark, soul-lit eyes of Dante is romance 
itself compared with our Iconoclast ! 

Conte C. lunched with us. He, by thq way, is a true Neapol- 
itan — amor patriae so deeply rooted in his heart, he knows no 
skies can be so serene, no sea so sapphire, no sunshine so 
splendid as these of his dolce Napoli. He, true son of the 
Church who has claimed so many of his family, was much dis- 
heartened to find we have been neglecting his Neapolitan 

churches and suggested we start with the Duomo this very after- 

122 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 123 

noon. Of course we've been in before — twice for Mass and 
once to hunt Mr. T. who was studying some of Domenichino's 
paintings, but as to the tomlbs and treasures the old Cathedral 
holds we had hardly given thought. So potent the spell of this 
outdoor world with its sunshine and dark people of simpatia 
and smiles. 

We met the Cardinal Archbishop coming down the Strada del 
Duomo just as we neared the Cathedral entrance. All the men 
on the street bared their heads — one devout woman knelt. Did 
His Eminence realize that it must have caused some sharp 
twinges of the rheumatism of which she was evidently a vic- 
tim, I doubt not he would have given her his blessing. I'm 

afraid though, he didn't see her at all our cab and big hats 

being sadly in her way and the Cardinal engaged at moment 
of her genuflection in bowing graciously to Conte C. An act 
which caused all the beggars gathered around the Duomo to 
besiege us as we left our cab, beseeching us for soldi for the 
love of our friend His Eminence and for the blessed San Gennaro. 
Poveri! they knew no one could refuse in the very shadow of 
the Cathedral itself — least of all one to whom the Cardinal 
had leaned out his carriage window to speak to and we were 
showered with blessings so splendid that splendors of the Duomo 
itself were paled. And that, did you but know the dazzling 
magnificence of the old Cathedral with its lavish gildings and 
rich decorations, is saying much. Gold on gold — color on 
color ! 

Of course the Cathedral is dedicated to San Gennaro, patron 
saint of the great city, the Christians of which he came as 
Bishop of Beneventum to aid during the awful reign of Diocle- 
tian. Condemned by the cruel Emperor to be burned alive, an- 
gels rescued himl from the flames. He was then thrown to wild 
beasts in the amphitheater at Pozzuoli — but again in vain. 
The beasts refused to touch him and five thousand were con- 
verted by the miracle. At last he was beheaded at Solfatara — 
September 19th, 305. All Naples knows the date of their pro- 
tector's martyrdom. And September 19th is now one of the 
dates of the liquefaction of the saint's blood — one of the great 
days of the Neapolitan year. 

A Christian woman saved some of the blood flowing from the 



124 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

head of the holy saint, preserving it in two ampullas which were 
hidden away and miraculously saved from harm until the fifteenth 
century when they were placed in the Cathedral — you have 
doubtless read the story since everyone who writes of Naples 
tells it once again. The miracle of liquefaction takes place 
three times each year in the splendid Duomo Chapel dedicated 
to the Saint, and these are the great days of the year in this 
old Napoli — city of a saint, as well as of a siren, one remem- 
bers whenever San Gennaro is mentioned. This liquefaction is 
a miracle or mystery, engaging just now the thought of many 
prominent scientists as well as heads of the Roman Church. Is 
it really a miracle? CM sa? One devout Romanist of the 
Neapolitan nobili will question it, while another Catholic of the 
English Church will admit it can be nothing else. But in the 
hearts of these dark-eyed people there is not the shadow of a 
doubt. It is the miracle on which the welfare of Naples and 
its people depend. According as the liquefaction is rapid or 
slow it is to them a good or evil omen for future and of all the 
many, many ecclesiastical functions of this religious old city, 
tliis is the greatest. Dense crowds — fervent prayers — intense 
excitement — loud demonstrations — awesome silences — and 
sooner or later the Priest calls in loud tones, " It moves! " and 
the glad news of another perpetuation of the great miracle 
sweeps like wind through the old Cathedral and out into each 
street and lane of Napoli. 

This Chapel of San Gennaro — also called del Tesoro on 
account of its enormous wealth of gold and precious stones — 
has some paintings of Domenichino to whom the decorations 
were first entrusted. Much to the disgust of Neapolitan ar- 
tists. For the artists of Naples had determined no foreign 
artists should work in their city — at least not in the splendid 
Tesoro Chapel of the new Cathedral and so unpleasant did they 
make things that Domenichino and Guido Reni each ran away 
leaving their work unfinished, yet not before poor Domenico, 
Guido Reni's assistant, had been coldly assassinated as a last 
warning. 

The magnificence of the Chapel is bewildering and one is 
almost glad the tomb of the saint in the Confessional is not 
so dazzling in its richness. Were the decorations as lavish as 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHIXG 125 

in the Chapel one might easily forget altogether the blessed 
saint himself, who having first comforted the early Christians 
of this city, has protected her people now for long centuries 
from plague and famine and that demoniac Vesuve. Here too 
in the Confessio is kneeling statue of Cardinal Carafa who built 
the crypt — a statue said by our verger to be work of the great 
Michael Angelo but Conte C. thought not, although some guide 
books do agree with the verger. 

We visited the other Cathedral chapels also — one of the 
handsomest of which belongs to Conte C.'s family and contains 
the tomb of Cardinal C. But thoughts of an uncle who was a 
famous thirteenth century saint and Cardinal make little impres- 
sion upon these twentieth century nobili of Napoli. Thirteenth 
century dates are accepted with the same coolness as dates 
of three figures and what old family here can not boast one and 
more saints or Cardinals? 

As we came out the Cathedral, our beggars were all van- 
ished, excepting one woman who flew to Conte C. He perhaps 
thought we would sooner forgive his not giving to the twentieth 
odd beggar than being obliged to go without gouier, so he gal- 
lantly informed her he would comie that way again soon and 
would not forget her — so full of simpatia these Neapolitans 
for their poor that they will not willingly hurt even a too ag- 
gressive beggar's feelings. Usually the kindly mention of " an- 
other day " is sufficient and one receives gracious thanks for 
the very promise and proceeds on their way in peace. But not 
so with our woman on the Cathedral steps, who poured forth 
volley after volley in expressive Neapolitan. We were highly 
amused when Count C. explained she had demanded if he was 
not much ashamed to have the American ladies think him so 
poor and had advised him, even if he had no love of Buon Dio, 
Madonna or the blessed saints in his heart, to give her at least a 
soldo that he might appear a Christian before the excellent 
ladies! Wasn't that deliciously clever? Conte C. found it quite 
irresistible and ran back. Did she reward him ^vith voluble 
thanks and invoked blessings ? — not she. The generous alms 
he placed in her hand were accepted with queenly thanks and 
in scornful tones she advised Conte C. to pray Madonna and 
San Gennaro without ceasing to give him love for the poor rather 



126 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

than pride as to what American ladies might think! Poor, 
debonair Conte C. who in truth is generosity itself — always giv- 
ing an alms to some poor soul ! — was quite withered. 

But the beggars- do not in the least annoy the Neapolitans 
as they so often do Americans, and though they give less than 
we Americans, they give with their soldi sl generous sympathy 
and are ev^er gracious in the giving of even the smallest alms. 
Hawthorne, you know, said in his Italian Notes, the great num- 
ber of beggars in Italy makes one's heart as " obdurate as a 
paving stone." Mamma mial and how thankful these beggars 
should be that all Americans are not affected like Hawthorne! 
When one considers the question seriously, remembers that prac- 
tically every square inch of soil in Naples is turned to advantage 
and yet there is no work for many hundreds of this great swarm- 
ing, over-populated city, and at same time thinks of the happi- 
ness which only a few soldi can bring to some povero whose wants 
are so simple, giving an alms to a beggar seems little enough 
when in return one is always so copiously thanked and has 
blessings of all heaven invoked on one's head. Or in case one 
may not care for the invoked blessings ** should not the for- 
eigner be willing to pay something for the climate?" demands 
Marion Crawford. 

Many of these very poor have some small article to sell — 
amulets, post-cards, or a thousand more or less curious things 
and can hardly be called real beggars, though they are quite as 
pathetic and difficult to refuse. For instance, the old wrinkled, 
tinkling ear-ringed nonna who sits under her large artist's dis- 
carded umbrella not far from here, patiently awaiting purchaser 
for her matches. She is a darling — a consummate old actress, 
yet as adorable as this Napoli. Who could resist her when she 
murmurs her pathetic appeal to " la signorina hellissima *'9 Not 
I, though I know full well she says the very same words, 
showers the identical gracious compliments on many another 
jeune fille of Parco Murgherita — to my adorably beautiful 
Neapolitan friend A. who passes by with duenna on way to 
early Mass, and to the deplorably homely Fraiilein who lives 
here at our menage and drives us all mad with her Teutonic 
rendering of '" Sole Mio/* Yet I love her devotedly — can 
never bear to see her disappointed and always have a box or 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 127 

more of matches in the pockets of each coat ! Maria — dear 
Italian that she is ! would never for moment dream of being so 
wildly extravagant as to give them away, but saves each box 
with elaborate care. There's a whole table drawer full already 
and when I leave this dolce Napoli some black-eyed, sun-bronzed 
gamin is to be set up with a stock the size of which has never 
been seen in this smiling old city of Parthenope. 

Though really these gamins are a thousandfold more pic- 
turesque unburdened with care of stock — free to turn their 
astonishingly agile cart-wheels under your horse's heels and im- 
portune you for soldi with impish persistence — persistence ac- 
companied with scorn as delicious as that of our povera on the 
Cathedral steps who feared lest we think Conte C. guilty of 
parsimony or poverty. 

There is so much mixture and simpatia between the classes 
here. Where else forsooth would beggars dare to advise nobili 
as to what manner of prayers they should make? Where else, 
indeed, but in this mysterious old Naples — Naples of sirens 
and sibyls, Marsii, Samnites, Lucanians, Arabians, Greeks, 
Romans, Normans, Suabians, Provencals, Spaniards, — a king- 
dom with no distinct nationality and a people like no other 
people of whole wide world. 

The mingling of classes strikes one at every turn — altogether 
different from in our own large cities where the poor have their 
own quarters, and quite different too, from London and Paris 
though the poor of no other European city can begin to be so 
wretchedly poor as many of these poveri of Naples. And yet 
none are too poor to feel at home alongside any prince or nohili 
of the city. One finds the juxtaposition of poveri and nobili in 
the narrow cross streets just as there is always mingling of 
garlic and incense. On all the main streets as well — even in 
the aristocratic Villa itself, and of course in each church, for the 
churches here you know are the home of the poor. Pius X in 
his latest decrees is very solicitous that his Bishops be quite 
certain all churches are free of access to poorest of the poor, 
that all may attend without danger of humiliation — suggestion 
which may be much needed in France and the United States 
but surely not here in Napoli where in the wealthiest church of 
an aristocratic parish there is always more or less of the poveri 



128 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

as much at home as the duke or prince whose family chapel is 
there in splendid magnificence. 

Family chapels — we saw a handsome old one this afternoon. 
Santa Maria della Pieta, property of the Princes of Sansevero^ 
a very old Neapolitan family. It slumbers away, unsought by 
tourists, though it is easily reached from the Cathedral on foot. 
Simply a cut through some of these mysteriously wonderful little 
streets teeming with life and fruit stands and cooking stalls and 
redolent of flowers and garlic and hot roasting chestnuts — 
by-ways where sellers are legion and buyers few, but where 
among the popoli has si one may see an Othello engaged in con- 
versation with a Fornarina who has long ago forgotten the divine 
Raphael. And then after a turn to the right and a turn to the 
left and a dive under a low hung awning and a dart through an 
old palazzo courtyard, one rounds a corner and half a dozen 
black-eyed ragazzi rush off to fetch the Chapel sagrestano who 
at length shuffles into view with an immense iron key weighing 
at least two pounds ! You see it's really very simple to reach 
this old Santa Maria della Pieta. The Chapel holds some splen- 
did tombs decorated by artists of the Neapolitan school. But 
the jewel of the whole Chapel is its Dead Christ — a glorious 
master-piece sculptured out of one block of exquisite white mar- 
ble. The work of Sammartino — most beautiful, 'tis said, of 
all his work. 

We had our gouter at Calflish — Calflish on the Chiaia, which 
at the hour of the Cor so, is as unlike the tiny secret-filled by- 
ways through which we had been sauntering as is Calflish itself 
from the picturesque little trattoria where the Fornarina stood 
at the door conversing with Othello and dark men sat inside 
over their lordly flasks, their fingers flashing in the game of 
mora. Calflish — 'tis he who makes the most delicious dolci 
— has several of his pastry shops where each afternoon one 
meets all Napoli. Yet the real English tea-rooms are springing 
up here and there too. These Neapolitan nobili have caught 
the custom charmingly, though not the habit — being not in the 
least fearful of appearing bourgeois, and generally insist that 
their tea be served in the form of chocolate ! The chocolate here 
is always delicious — one often takes tea at their own risk. 
Notwithstanding which fact all nobili of Napoli go '" to take the 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 129 

tea *' each day between 1 7 and 1 8 o'clock with all ardor of good 
Britishers. 

And by the way this modern method of reckoning time is 
wonderfully clever — so much simpler than the stupid duplicate 
system commonly in vogue. Day begins at midnight as with 
us, but after noon, 1 o'clock is 13 o'clock and so on up till 24. 
Italy, 'tis said, has been first to abolish the old system and other 
countries have followed in her lead. It is particularly scientific 
in making railroad time-tables lucid and does away with all 
confusion of a. m. and p. m. hours. 

The bells ring twenty- four at this very moment, so felice 
notte, carino! May you have the huon riposo which comes to 
those of Napoli, knowing that though we sleep in somber shadow 
of that Satanic Vesuve our San Gennaro is able protector from 
all harm. 



' 



' Who can withstand thee? What distress or care 
But yields to Naples," 

— Robert Underwood Johnson. 



* 4' 



TO J. 

Naples, January — 

FGAVE us tickets for the Palazzo Reale here in the city 
• to-day, so we went after lunch, taking with us a little 
ten-year-old girl whose mother was spending the day at Capri 
and had left her in our care. Naturally this little American 
coupled Royal Palace and the idea of King and Queen to- 
gether and fully expected it seems to see them! A more dis- 
appointed enfante you can not imagine than she when we ex- 
plained the Royal family lived in Rome and there was no roy- 
alty whatever here at the Neapolitan Palazzo Reale just now. 
She was utterly miserable and would be consoled with neither 
promises of gelati nor of Calflish dolci. We had made several 
futile efforts to find a suitable substitute for the King and Queen 
when, through happy thought, we suggested a Duke and of- 
fered to invite one to dinner to-night. One would have thought 
Duke much miore important than King by the sudden delight 
vnih which this last proposition was met and a note was quickly 
dispatched to Duca G. commanding his presence for our 
protegee. Happily he had no other engagement and came much 
amused at cause of his impromptu summons but treating little 
Miss T. with such devoted attention that she has been in her 
zenith and declares Dukes ever so much nicer than Kings. Of 
course I think so myself. Though since her years number but 
ten and mine not yet double that, our acquaintance with royalty 
has been somewhat limited, and we may be mistaken. 

But after this delicate matter of finding substitute for the 
Royal family had been so cleverly arranged, we all set forth 
for the Palazzo in gay, good spirits. The outside we have of 
course often seen since the palazzo is in center of the most fre- 
quented part of the city, and we have many times admired the 

130 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING ISl 

simple elegance of the big brownish red palace with its green 
shuttered windows through which divers Neapolitan Queens have 
peeped. It has a certain noble grandeur quite impressive though 
the almost sole adornment of the main front is in eight marble 
statues which Humbert had placed there^ staring stonily across 
a handsome large piazza which reminds one of views of the 
piazza of St. Peter's. These represent Neapolitan rulers be- 
ginning with Roger of Normandy^ down to Joachim Murat and 
Victor Emmanuel II. Where Humbert himself and Victor Em- 
manuel III are to be placed, no one seems to know. 

A grand white marble stairway led to those of the eighty- 
five rooms most interesting to tourists — a magnificent dining- 
room, splendid throne rooms and Chapel which has been dec- 
orated by the illustrious Neapolitan, Domenico Morelli. In 
this Chapel, Maria Carolina, Queen of Ferdinand IV, knelt 
with her five daughters to pray for the soul of her sister, Marie- 
Antoinette, upon receiving awful news of her execution. Many 
of the rooms held beautiful pictures — some by the old masters, 
but mostly modern. Among these last, a picture of that charm- 
ing Lady Hamilton who, with her hero Nelson, has danced many 
a dance in the great ballroom of this regal palace. . 

But 'tis a contre-cceur to linger long in these tomb-like palaces 
when such wealth of sunshine awaits outside. But sunshine 
truly ! — dancing and dazzling with the magic of moonlight 
mixed with its rays. While it is often so cold here that fur 
coats feel none too warm, still the sun is always of such dazzling 
brilliancy that a parasol is gladly carried. At first it seemed 
rather laughable, — this combination of fur coat and sun shade; 
but when I saw a stunning one of Roman stripes in a charming 
little shop along the Via Calabritta — and prezzo fisso only 
twenty-eight francs ! — I could resist no longer. The bright 
warm stripes look wonderfully well with my gray or black fur 
coat although by carrying a parasol I proclaim myself one of 
the forestieri — yet surely a chic parasol is preferable to red 
guide-books ! One sees few of the Neapolitan women at this 
season with sun shades, doubtless because they are so accustomed 
to this fiery gold sun of Naples — said to have no equal in the 
world. Yet as we sing in the French version of '' Sole Mio," 
the popular old Neapolitan song: 



132 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

" La belle chose qu'un soleil d'aurore! 

Mais sur ta levre 

Plus radieux 
TJn soleil regne que j'aime mieux; 
La flamme est dans ta levre 
Et la clart'e hrille en tes yeux! " 

Sunday : 

Your letter not yet sent! Each day so full — writing a 
bona fide letter seems quite hopeless, and even jotting down 
impressions, neglected until they are swept away entirely. And 
if you by chance remember the frightful rapidity with which 
I can make my pen fly, you will surely agree our days are 
full indeed, if even / cannot jot down impressions as they come. 
How I wish that you might have seen Naples while you were 
here in Italy! Comme ga I should not have to send you these 
scribbles thus — en rapport Neapolitan sunshine et cetera. 

We went to early Mass this morning and once home I had 
planned to finish this that it might be dispatched for the fast 
mail, but Conte C. came in to propose seeing more churches to- 
miorrow. He has graciously undertaken task of showing us some 
of the several hundred Neapolitan churches and of fulfilling the 
role of courier in general. F. is hopeless as a cicerone! 

So to prepare our souls for to-morrow, we all walked to San 
Francesco di Paola and attended a second Mass — one of the 
very fashionable churches in Naples belonging to the Royal 
estate. The Royal palace faces this church and these two prom- 
inent buildings are divided by the large and handsome piazza 
— which always reminds one of views of Piazza San Pietro. 

The Church too, reminds me of St. Peter's — the exterior 
view. For though the large columns in front have been placed 
to give the appearance of the Pantheon, there is also that ar- 
rangement of semi-circular colonnade, curving its great arms 
as though to embrace the whole world. 

In this splendid piazza lying between Church and Palazzo 
Reale, are placed two very fine equestrian statues — one of 
Charles III by Canova, other of Ferdinand I, — said by some to 
be a work of Call and by other critics to be work of Canova 
also. It seems to Mr. T. and me we can detect in each statue 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 133 

that bold touch peculiar to Canova, though doubtless you would 
think them lacking much the strength and spirit of that Marcus 
Aurelius of which you always keep the copy on your desk. I, 
like you, have come to think there is certain strength and 
grandeur in equestrian statues found in nothing else. Were I 
a sculptor I fancy I would want to work altogether in this line 
and would no doubt begin with that most noble of animals, dear 
old Wheeler, modeling him with wings of Pegasus ! 

We often stop to admire an equestrian statue of Victor Em- 
manuel II in the Piazza del Municipio. A work of 1897, but a 
glorious piece — the king riding boldly and bravely out into 
space. Yet the finest thing by far in the equestrian statues 
of Naples are the two Horse Tamers at gate of the Royal Pal- 
ace garden. These, commonly called the Russian Horses since 
they were presented by the Emperor Nicholas I and are really 
splendid though not so traveled perhaps as the horses of St. 
Mark's. In the Museum too, there are several superb eques- 
trian pieces from Pompeii and Herculaneum — proof the Greeks 
were not slow to see that beauty lay in that noblest of animals, 
as well as in the human form. Two equestrian statues of the 
Balbi, found at Herculaneum, are among the most perfect pieces 
in the wonderful collection of Great Bronzes, and compared by 
some critics to your beloved Marcus Aurelius and the Colleoni 
of Venice. 

We came home from Church by way of the Villa where we 
found Marquis T. and several young cavalry officers, brave in 
their captivating gray uniforms- — all riding con spirit o around 
the circular course which encloses the Villa proper. Several 
of them joined us for an ice at the little cafe — one finds most 
delicious granita there. 

I pronjised Marquis T. to ride his favorite horse, Nero — 
a beautiful Black Beauty — sometime soon. Few girls ride 
here; but if Tuesday fa hel tempo, madame is to take me down 
to the Villa where one of Casa T.'s grooms is to have Nero 
waiting. Marchese T. is to cut his lectures at the University 
— quite a I'americane, you see, and we are planning some good 
canters in the Villa. Of course we may not go outside — 
without a chaperone that is not to be thought of! though I 
should much prefer the long white stretch of Via Caracciolo 



134 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

alongside the dancing blue water, rather than the Villa course 
through which cavalry officers have raced their horses. Yet even 
here inside the Villa, were I jeune fille Italian, poor madame 
would be obliged to mount also and ride alongside, but happily, 
I'm American and consequently will be allowed the great liberty 
of being out of madame's surveillance for perhaps two minutes 
at a time! Conte C. asked permission to ride on Tuesday also. 
They seldom have opportunity to ride with a signorina and with 
a signorina americana but once in a lifetime ! Doubtless most 
of these Neapolitan girls are too dignified to go in for horse- 
back riding to any extent; or perhaps 'tis only lack of duennas 
who can adapt themselves to such exercise ! 

Speaking of these Italian girls — I once said to one of my 
Neapolitan friends who has no sisters, that I thought the girls 
here were rather too reserved to find an American girl very 
simpatica. However that was before I really came to know 
them. Yet his reply was very naive. " Not so, madamoiselle; 
but they must to appear stupid! " And yet as Naples grows 
more and more cosmopolitan, these old barriers are being thrown 
down. My pretty friend A., who is considered one of the most 
charming young women in all Neapolitan society, is really 
quite American in many of her ways; though of course by no 
means to the extent of ever appearing in public alone or with 
a man unless accompanied by some married woman or duenna. 

Returning to the hotel froml the Villa we were much amused 
to have some American tourists — a man and two nervous 
women, rush up to us and ask where tickets were sold in the 
depot for Pompeii. The depot in question being in an entirely 
different part of the city, we were naturally surprised at such a 
question. "The depot?" we repeated. "Yes, the depot 
across ! " they answered, impatient at our stupidity, and pointed 
just across the piazza to a building bearing POMPIERI in 
large letters. This they had read, in their tourist haste, as 
Pompeii and supposed it to be a station for a tram or railroad 
line to that place; but having been refused entrance as they 
rushed for tickets and unable to make the guards at the door 
understand, they were nonplused as to where the proper entrance 
was to be found, and much disgusted when we explained Pom- 
pieri meant fire-brigade and that the railway station for Pom- 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 135 

peii was a m/ile or two away! As usual they had planned to 
spend the afternoon at the ruins and leave early to-morrow for 
Rome. Conte C. called a cab and arranged with the cocker, 
to reach the Ferrovia for Pompeii in all possible speed. We 
watched them dash off, bumping madly over the cobblestone 
pavement — the women with chapeaux awry, the man with his 
watch in hand. Oh, these tourists ! 

We spent this afternoon with friends who have a lovely Villa 
up on the Corso Victor Emmanuel with beautiful name of 
'' Santa Maria/' They have an exquisite garden with old 
marble seats, and fauns; quantities of roses and of course orange 
and mandarine trees — all the Neapolitan ville have those and 
air is ever filled with their fragrance. The gardeners broke 
oif whole branches, laden with the yellow fruit for us, and we 
came home almost buried with the foliage — stopping to make 
a few turns on the Via Caracciolo. 

One must always make this promenade here on Sunday; 
there is enchanting music in the Villa and all Naples is either 
on the Caracciolo or sauntering in the Villa — for this is our 
Pincian Garden. Though of course I am very sure this Villa 
Reale is far more beautiful than anything Rome can offer, or 
your bella Firenze either ! Rome may have more admirable old 
ruins but she can not be so lovable and adorable as this beauti- 
ful sunny Napoli stretched out along this turquoise Tyrrhenian. 

" God gives all men all earth to love, 
But since man's heart is small. 
Ordains for each one spot shall prove 
Beloved over all. 
Each to his choice, and I rejoice 
The lot has fallen to me " — 
To love a land — a smiling land; 
Sweet Napoli, by the sea. 

Of course I apologize to Kipling. Yet I'm sure had he known 
this Napoli as I, his verse would have run something like that. 
Tanti saluti! 



" dolce Napoli, 
suol heate 
Ove sorridere 
Voile il create/' 
Santa Lucia " — Neapolitan Boating Song 



TO G. 

Naples^ January — 

YESTERDAY, beloved St. Anthony's day and we went 
down to his church with Duchessa P. to attend the bless- 
ing of Neapolitan horses — great religious festa attended by 
the entire city, for Naples is a very religious old city — say 
what you will. Few of these Neapolitan cabmen, however in- 
different they may often seem to their priests, will miss this 
blessing for their animals and this in spite of the fact that the 
horses '^ non sono cristiani " — at least Pietro so states and so 
it must be true. Though it strikes us that Beppo after having 
dri\xn us all morning and arriving full two hours late to his 
pranzo bears up with true Christian spirit and sees to it that 
none of his brave dash is ever lost. And, like those fish who 
came together on the sea-shore of Rimini to listen to St. Anthony 
preach and showed their understanding of his sermon by open- 
ing wide their mouths and nodding heads, so Beppo himself by 
willing spirit and swift speed endeavors to make us understand 
that the blessing of St. Anthony which he has had now for six 
years is fully appreciated even though, as Pietro so emphatic- 
ally states, he can not be a good Catholic. 

Beppo was there at the Church this afternoon, smartly tricked 
out with ribbons, bells and charms to ward off the evil eye. 
For alas, potent as is St. Anthony's blessing, it would be of 
little avail against all these wicked jettatori of Napoli! and 
charms against the malocchio are as necessary as St. Anthony's 
blessing, though the two are in no way confounded by these 
mysterious Neapolitans. The amulets do their part and St. 
Anthony's blessing surely availeth much. Of the latter I am 

136 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 137 

sure. Since one living in this Napoli and driven every day 
through these crowded, narrow streets by debonair, dare-devil 
drivers, realizes how very few accidents occur and must cer- 
tainly attribute this special grace given to the horses as coming 
directly from St. Anthony in heaven. It would surely require 
more than earthly skill to avert accidents at the dashing rate 
we fly in Pietro's shining carrozella. 

The Humane- Society, introduced into Italy by a Bostonian, 
has done such splendid work among the cabmen of Naples that 
F. says one finds the cab-horses of Rome sorry beasts com- 
pared with these here, who, like Beppo, are generally fat and 
sleek. We've never yet seen a driver unkind to his beast though 
diabolic cockers are supposed to be as much a part of Naples 
as blue sky and gold sun. 

The nohili too had sent their horses by grooms and coachmen, 
for dear St. Anthony is not partial to cab-horses alone and his 
blessing is in demand on all sides — from aristocratic nohili 
and from humble owners of little sure-footed donkeys who climb 
the stair-streets buried in their loads of green and no doubt 
have much need of St. Anthony's blessing to give them the 
proper meekness for standing patiently at angle closely ap- 
proaching forty-five degrees while the debonair vendors bargain 
with dark-eyed signore in shrill voice and much gesticulation. 
Duchessa P.'s beautiful carriage horses, considered by many to 
be the most perfect pair in all Napoli, had been taken in the 
morning to receive their blessing and as we sat watching the 
ceremony, Nino, her footman, told us with simplicity which made 
us all smile, how he had made bold to ask the priest to give 
Principessa an extra heavy sprinkling of the holy water since she 
suffered with a slight case of distemper ! Oh, these Neapoli- 
tans ! 

The horses of the nohili, by the way, are splendid spirited 
animals of Moorish blood and turnouts here rival those of our 
own great cities. They have here the clever custom of shoeing 
the horses with rubber, using bells on the harness which tinkle 
charmingly. 'Tis said that no matter how poor a family of 
the nohili may be, if within power they will always manage to 
have their own carriage. 

Which reminds me, I've lately read in two different sketches 



138 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

on Italy of the incident related by an American who had an 
apartment in a Roman palace and in going in or out frequently 
met a servant belonging to one of the families in the palazzo, 
forever carrying carriage doors ! It was explained later that 
the mysterious doors belonged to a single carriage which three 
rather poor Italian families, each having an apartment in the 
old palazzo, shared between them — each family having their 
door proudly bearing their own coat-of-arms. Thus, so the 
mystified American related, they each had, as it were, their 
own carriage for the corso and all their friends believed each 
family maintained their own complete outfit. This American, 
by the way, was none other than Mr. Hawthorne, and perhaps 
he himself would have preferred driving several days a week 
during nine months of the year with coat-of-arms emblazoned 
on the door which was not his own ! But whose coat-of-arms, 
please, would be used if the carriage was owned jointly by three 
different families.'^ Ecco! it would seem one must agree with 
the Romans that the simplest solution of the problem was to 
have the different sets of doors! Non e vero? 

But Americans and English are ever fond of declaring 
*' Tutto per I'apparenza " — all for appearance — is the one motto 
of Italian nobility and it really seems they base this remark 
particularly on the wish of Italian families to keep a carriage. 
How anyone can blame people for being willing to make sac- 
rifice to keep a turnout in such a divine land as this is quite 
past comprehension, though I suppose to a rotund Tedesco a 
lordly dinner would be a thousand times preferable than an 
hour of driving under bluest sky in the world. But happily, 
eating is not the chief end of a Neapolitan. On macaroni and 
fromaggio, a salad and fruit one miay dine like a king. And 
what difference if the great salons of these old palazzi have 
only scaldini for heating — one may always drive in the sun- 
shine and have their heart warmed by the smiles of friends in 
the corso. 

For here one makes the corso each afternoon with the never- 
failing regularity with which one looks to the barometer Vesuve 
each morning. We had a splendid trottata this afternoon with 
Duchessa P. — once we had seen for a surety that Pietro had 
walked his sleek Beppo around the court three times, receiving 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 1S9 

each time a liberal sprinkling of the holy water. For without 
assurance of San Antonio's blessing we would never dare trust 
our precious necks in Pietro's hands. But being satisfied that 
all had been properly performed even to seeing the certificate 
of blessing tied with gaudy ribbon to the pompous horn amulet^ 
we dashed off for the corso with hearts at ease, joining in the 
long stream of carriages con amore. 

There's wonderful charm in the corso, though you who have 
never made one in an Italian city — and it's only in Italy that 
they are so regularly observed — will perhaps wonder wherein 
lies the so-great attraction in driving up and down a street and, 
as it were, placing oneself on exhibition for several hours each 
afternoon. It's only one of the many mysteries of this ador- 
able land — a something too intangible to be analyzed, yet no 
one who loves Italy will deny its potency. And so steeped are 
we in the ways of this Old World Napoli, rarely day passes that 
we are not on the corso, making a trottata with all zest of a 
Neapolitan born. 

In winter, except on those days when there's music in the 
Villa, the corso is generally held on the old Toledo and on the 
Chiaia — streets so narrow that there is little more than room 
for the two columns of carriages and when once you enter it is 
impossible, except at cross streets, to leave the line or dash 
ahead. One can go no faster than the turnout just in front. 
The superb sea-drive along the Villa front is surely unsur- 
passed for the stately moving corso, but even though there is 
no view, — no sapphire sea and only a mere ribbon of azure 
sky to be seen above one's head — on these inland streets, 
there is ever something of great interest and something of Old 
World picturesque. You know this old Toledo has been called 
most fascinating street of the whole world and 'tis surely true. 
Heaven knoweth how it holds its mass of humanity, for 'tis a 
street less than sixty feet wide — strange contrast with its 
almost two miles of length — and packed into its narrow con- 
fines each afternoon are not only all the gens d'elite of Napoli 
engaged in making the corso, but each class and condition of 
Neapolitans to be found between the array of nobili and army 
of poveri, finds its place there too. For the Toledo, unlike the 
handsome avenues used for the afternoon drives in New York, 



140 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

Paris and Vienna, is for rich and poor alike — just as the laws 
and penalties which Don Pedro enforced here were for nohili 
as much as for peasant. (Alas for that debonair young noble- 
man, Antonio Brancaccio, who bent on a love adventure, was 
caught breaking into one of these old palazzi in the daytime by 
means of a ladder and was promptly executed !) 

But nohili of to-day who love to promenade this old Toledo, 
at all hours of day and night, seem to have altogether forgiven 
that zealous Viceroy who so disgusted their ancestors with his 
many reforms and attempts to establish the Inquisition in this 
smiling old city of the siren. Don Pedro may have been great- 
est of all viceroys, but he was surely not loved and no doubt 
many a Neapolitan must have sighed for those happy days of 
the Great Captain. Gonsalvo da Cordova, so severe, yet so lov- 
able and generous to his enemies that to this day the Neapoli- 
tans call him the gentil cavalier, and when he left this Parthen- 
ope he was followed to the shore by all the Neapolitans in a 
body. Not a dry eye was to be seen, Prescott says, you re- 
member — so completel)'^ had il gran capitano captivated all 
classes. 

We met F. later at Calflish — he always knows where to look 
for us late each afternoon, for these dolci of Calflish are so 
much a notre gout that even the splendid English tea-rooms in 
the new Galleria Vittoria fail to attract. The Italians really 
understand and enjoy the science of eating better than any 
other nation and it is predicted that English tea-rooms are to 
meet with the same fate as French restaurants so far as Neapoli- 
tans are concerned, and must depend on forestieri for patronage. 
Italians, you know, are true artists in the culinary arts — not 
so frugal as the French, yet by no means given to an over- 
abundance after manner of Americans and English (and of 
course not to be mentioned in the same breath with these ruddy, 
rotund Germians!) but strike a happy medium in quantity with 
a quality delectable — barring snails and eels and young octo- 
puses ! It's really not at all to be wondered at that the Italian 
chefs des cuisines are in such growing demand in our best Amer- 
ican hotels and restaurants and are so rapidly destroying the 
long-held monopoly of the French, just as Italian musicians have 
broken down the monopoly of the Germans. 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 141 

F. had a box for San Carlos, last night. Signor Mascagni's 
" Amico Fritz/' the opera, splendidly given, though I much 
prefer '* Cavalleria Rusticana '' with which he leaped into fame. 
We had a beautiful box of the second tier — one which has be- 
longed for years to the prominent B. family until this season 
when they can no longer afford a box at San Carlos and the son 
of the family is making great efforts — so at least gossip says, 
to find an American who will exchange a few million for a 
share in his many titles. The opera season is in full sway and 
though the Metropolitan may boast better artists, its boxes 
surely hold no more beautiful women and no more splendid uni- 
forms than this old San Carlos of Naples. 

One receives calls in one's box at the theater here, consid- 
ering it equivalent to a call at one's home. It is custom d' 
habitude — one which, 'tis said, is carried out in the small towns 
with the same ardor as in the great centers, for of course each 
small town has its opera house and season of Grand Opera, it 
being nothing of a luxury but necessity to these music-mad 
people. We had callers at our palco the entire evening. These 
Neapolitans are wonderfully attractive — say what you will. 
Mr. T. surprised us by coming in unexpectedly from Rome ac- 
companied by three splendidly uniformed officers, with names 
and titles seemingly as splendid as the uniforms. They'll doubt- 
less leave cards some time to-day so one may puzzle out the 
titles at leisure — count the balls of the coronets and ascer- 
tain be its o^vner duke, prince, marchese or mere conte. The 
greatest difficulty being not in this, but how to know the men 
Vun ou Vautre, since when several leave cards at once, as is often 
the case, the matter becomes decidedly complicated. So incon- 
siderate of these people to have names, each with so many vow- 
els that in meeting several at the same mooment, one finds it 
impossible oftentimes to remember which signore ends in o and 
which in a! As some Italian himself has tersely said, one is 
slave here to the tiny visiting card, through whose medium many 
of the rigid rules of society in this sirenic old city are observed 
with unfailing exactitude sufficient to astonish that divine 
Parthenope. For instance this rule that each gentleman whom 
one meets must come the next day and leave his card for Mad- 
ame le Mere, although he never at this time asks, of course, to 



142 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

see one. Like most of these Old World customs it's rather a 
charming one — one may know just whom they wish^ though 
it's a rule carried out on the part of these dark gallants of 
Napoli with such spirit that one may not meet a man in even 
the most casual manner^ but that his card is left the next day 
with your pompous old portier. 'Tis said these wise portiers 
gauge their fees by the number of cards left for the prospective 
f eer ! 

And I must tell you these old portiers of Naples are nothing 
like those portiers of France, but the most delightful, humble- 
pompous creatures you can imagine. Ours here is a treasure 
— one who holds all the secrets and old traditions of this mys- 
terious Napoli within his gold-laced breast, though you would 
seldom suspect him of being anything but a mechanical statue 
making profound obeisances at certain intervals of clock-like 
regularity. Though really it must be confessed he has his 
mechanism so nicely regulated that an obeisance in presenting 
the carte de visite of a prince or duke bearing an old Neapolitan 
name is much more profound than in the presentation, for in- 
stance, of the card of a conte or even a duke of the noveau 
riche! What these old portiers don't know concerning the his- 
tory of Neapolitan families and the etiquette due each shade of 
nobility would certainly be of little importance. But that is 
one of the secrets their superb mechanism never betrays, though 
it seems almiost evident at times they consider the dare-devil 
ways of Americans quite hopeless. 

" Hopeless " is doubtless what poor Contessina C. believes 
them to be. She is a gracious Neapolitan-English girl who 
makes her home here and though on account of her English 
father she herself takes many a liberty no true Neapolitan 
would dare, yet it is quite evident she considers ways of Ameri- 
cans often astonishing — quite impossible ! She gave me amus- 
ing warning the other night after an informal little dance here 
at the hotel, the purport being that if I talked or danced with 
one of these Neapolitans too often, there will be immediate 
rumors of my engagement, likely to reach America through 
that gossipy Nev} York Herald edition of Paris before I myself 
have learned to pronounce my supposed fiance's name correctly! 
Mamma mia! What would be considered too often — six 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 143 

dances one evening? I questioned anxiously. And poor little 
Contessina C.'s warm olive skin actually turned pale at mention 
of such a thing. " Madonna mia! — not more than once dur- 
ing an evening if you know what is well ! " she exclaimed in 
such serious tones that last night at the opera I took elaborate 
pains my attentions should be evenly divided among the Neapoli- 
tans in the box. May the gods assist me if all future days in 
this idyllic land must be troubled by constant thought of fair 
di\dsion of words and smiles ! 

I broke off abruptly, Maria having interrupted to remind me 
that madame was <lue at thirteen and that she herself had heard 
la signorina promise to look over some verbs. '^ Ecco! if only 
there were no verbs/' I wailed laying down the pen. " Madonna ! 
what a sweet time for the maids if there were no verbs — no 
run^ no sew, no come, no go! ** she returned quickly, with wit so 
Irish that I know you'll like the girl. 

And so your poor letter was left for Italian verbs which are 
one of the mysteries of Italy — as great as that mystery of 
why the best Italian is spoken in Tuscany but the best pro- 
nunciation given in Rome — lingua Toscana in bocca Romana. 
Or that mysterious Lei which is genitive and dative yet always 
used in the nominative in speaking whether you address man, 
woman or thing, though Lei (greater mystery still!) means sim- 
ple she! This Italian tongue like all else Italian is as brim 
full of mysteries as is Naples of dark gesticulative people. As 
redolent of romance as gestures of grace. 

And the gestures, by the way, of these Neapolitans are truly 
amazing. Classic fingers forever flashing, shoulders sedately 
shrugging, eyes eloquently expressive ! But most wonderful 
effect of the Neapolitan gesture language is seen, without doubt, 
in dance of the Tarantella. 

We've been entertained since dinner by a company en cos- 
tume — superlative actors each one. It's entirely different from, 
the dance which grew out the old belief only music and dancing 
could cure the madness produced by bite of the tarantula — 
lots more picturesque now in its changed character from cure 
to quarrel. Stamer has described it so wonderfully well that 
F. and I committed part of it to memory as preliminary to 



144 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

learning the dance itself^ which we intend to do when next at 
Capri, for it is there it is best danced nowadays. 

"It is the old theme — * the quarrels of lovers are the 
renewal of love/ " so Stamer starts out and the rest runs like a 
jingle. "Enraptured gaze, coy side-looks; .gallant advance, 
timid retrocession; impassioned declaration, supercilious rejec- 
tion; piteous supplication, softening hesitation; worldly goods' 
oblation, gracious acceptation; frantic jubilation, maidenly 
resignation. Petting, wooing, billing, cooing. Jealous accusa- 
tions, sharp recriminations; manly expostulations, shrewish ag- 
gravation; angry threat, summary dismissal. Fuming on one 
side, pouting on the other. Reaction, approximation, explana- 
tion, exoneration, reconciliation, osculation, winding up with a 
pas de circonstance expressive of confidence re-established and 
joy unbounded." 

It's really lots more expressive than our cake-walk of the 
South which these Neapolitans sometimes coax F. and me into 
executing at a the-dansant — to their great amusement, though 
could they see it performed by real artists they would be quite 
wild. There's at present but one negro in all Naples despite 
our nearness to Africa. Yet she is nothing of the curiosity 
one might naturally suppose and no one turns to give her the 
second glance except we ourselves to whom her black face looks 
so kindly Southern. But she is true African — has never seen 
America and talks in a queer gibberish utterly incomprehen- 
sible. Visions of cake-walks would be as far beyond her fancy 
as to these dancers of the Tarantella of to-night. Yet I fancy 
could these Tarantella dancers only see a bona fide cake-walk 
they would be able to catch the tricks quickly. They are such 
splendid actors — especially these of to-night, and we encored 
again and again, insisting that they do the petting, wooing, bill- 
ing, cooing until the girls in their gay corsets and fancy lace 
aprons were quite too out of breath to do more than attend to 
the passing of the tambourines while the men sang. 

These old Neapolitan songs " Santa Lucia " and " Sole 
Mio '* which they've sung for, heaven knoweth how many years, 
are still the favorites and full of exquisite harmony as sung by 
these Neapolitans when they have good voices, as most of them 
really have, though 'tis true many are ruined by singing in the 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 145 

streets in all weathers and evil Sirocco. Yet a Neapolitan with 
a Toice practically ruined can manage an amazing amount of 
expression in singing — so much of that pathos which seems just 
beneath the surface in each Italian, no matter of what class. 

I have already a splendid collection of Italian music — every- 
thing from gay boating songs to the score for that triste " Ma- 
dame Butterjiy." This last all the rage here — opened the season 
and is whistled by the street gamins and hummed by the nohili 
at every step. All Neapolitans are quite music-mad. One hears 
the raggedest little raggazi breaking out in snatches of " Trav- 
lata " and other operas each day and frequently comes across a 
small sun-bronzed hiricchino del sir ad a standings hands deep in 
what serves as pockets in the multi-patched garment serving 
him as trousers, intent on the bill-board settipg forth the coming 
attractions at San Carlos. For though San Carlos is so regal 
an old opera house, 'tis one of the homes of these Neapolitan 
poveri and 'way up, far, far above the aristocratic second tier 
boxes are to be found the most appreciative of the entire house 
— people whose applause and shouts of ^' bravo" and " hravis- 
simo " are always sincere and mean far more to new artist than 
applause from lower boxes or pit. 

This San Carlos you know, is one of the largest opera houses 
of all music-loving Europe and built by that Charles III to 
whom we are indebted for so much of the modern elegance of 
this old XapoU. For he not only pushed forward the work of 
excavating Herculaneum and Pompeii, but planned that noble 
palace at Caserta, began the magnificent palazzo of Capo-di 
monte and built "La Favorita" at Portici, rejecting the ob- 
jection that Portici lay at feet of Vesuve and was unsafe site 
for a royal chateau , by boldly declaring that " God, the Immac- 
ulate Virgin and San Gennaro w^ll protect us." But his San 
Carlos theater is surely a greater monument to his reign than 
all palazzi reali piled together. 'Tis said he commanded it 
should be the largest theater of all Europe and built in the 
shortest time and in accordance with the command was begun 
one March and completed the next October in time for its open- 
ing with a play on the King's fete. You really can not possibly 
appreciate what tremendous progress was necessary till you see 
this San Carlos for yourself. It has six rows of boxes lining 



146 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 



all three sides of the theater, with a splendid Royal Box just 
above the entrance directly opposite the stage. Of course Carlo 
Borhone was extremely well pleased when he entered the bril- 
liantly lighted theater on his fete celebration, and sent for Car- 
asale, the architect, praising him graciously; but made the re- 
mark that since the theater was so near the Royal Palace it 
would have been more convenient for the royal household had 
there been a connecting passage. Yet saying they would talk 
of that later, he dismissed Carasale and gave his attention to 
the new play. Imagine his surprise when at the end of the 
spectacle, the architect awaited him and begged him to return 
to the royal palace by private passage ! In the three hours 
Charles was enjoying the play the clever Carasale had had a 
great wall pulled down and a passage constructed uniting theater 
with the Palazzo Reale. The roughness of the hasty work was 
concealed by tapestries and effect so artistic the astonished 
Carlo Borhone no doubt thought Carasale some such magician 
as was Virgil who builded the brooding old CasteV dell* Ovo 
overnight on an egg. F. gave me a book with this little inci- 
dent in it the other day and this afternoon we were in the 
theater and the affable old porter told it over again — with 
variations of course ! — showed us where Carasale had it cut 
through, et cetera. We had run in to engage a box for the 
Sunday matinee so we can take the L.'s and while waiting for the 
box office to open our old porter took us all over — into the 
Royal Box and up to the very roof where the poor but so music- 
loving people may find a seat for the price of a coin which is as 
small as is their appreciation great. 

The L.'s lunched with us this noon — really gave us two hours 
of their precious time which might have been spent browsing 
among the bronzes of the Museum or haunting churches. For 
of all indefatigable tourists ! They simply rush from morning 
till night — have done more in a few days than we in months. 
C. was quoting some things from Longfellow, whereupon 
Mrs. L. remarked what a great pity it was that he refused the 
decoration from Victor Emmanuel. You've read, of course, how 
the Italian King wanted to decorate him but Longfellow made 
answer that as an American, a republican and a Protestant he 
could not accept it — at least something to that effect. Mrs. 



n 



I 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 147 

L. thought such a statement and refusal prudish on his part. 
But she would see the matter far differently could she only 
understand how we Americans love Longfellow — dear, modest 
Longfellow who journeyed into the land Outre-Mer to study, 
not to be lionized, and with frank simplicity he refused it. 

You will be interested to know that Mrs. L., although an 
Englishwoman, thinks like you that the tariff in our land should 
be removed from old paintlings. But even so — what good 
would it accomplish .f* There would still remain this Italian 
law forbidding the exportation of any of its old art treasures. 
It's a wise old law too, and the longer we are here, better we 
realize the wisdom of the Italian Government. Old paintings 
ruthlessly torn out of this Old World setting would lose more 
than half their charm. Mrs. L., however, avers that each one 
who loves Art can create their own artistic setting — that a 
Botticelli is as beautiful in England or America as in its Italy. 
But Mrs. L. is too busy sight-seeing to truly love Italy. An 
old treasure to her stands simply for what some master has 
wrought — not for the love and reverence that conceived it nor 
the adoration it may have received for centuries as it brought 
sunshine into some shadow of this Italy. For 'tis the pictures 
that are the sun which shots the deep shadows of these sweet 
Italian churches. 



. . *' For if you are great and nohle of heart, you will not\ 
see the dirt nor the sin here in Niaples; you will see the winnin 
ways of people in whose life there is little of cheer, and in the 
humblest of streets you will hear laughter and song." 

— M. P. 



TO M. 

Naples, January — 

WE awoke to another of these mornings of pure gold and 
supernal azure yet after fashion of tourists who know 
nothing of the greater joy of idling in the sunshine among the 
people, we spent the entire morning at the Museum — that vast 
regal treasure house. Though we went intending to spend not 
more than an hour in settling a discussion of last night as to 
original arrangement of Laocoon's right arm. It has been re- 
stored you know — probably incorrectly, since from marks in 
hair at back of the head it is supposed the original arm was 
bent behind rather than extended as restored by Montorsoli. 
Were the arm given this original position Mr. T. insists the 
group would give much greater portrayal of suffering. He had 
a sketch which he did some months ago, giving this arm its 
supposed original position bent to the back of the head, and 
comparing the drawing with the figure, we readily agreed he is 
correct. Though even as the group stands to-day, one can not 
bear to study it for long — so terrible and intense the agony 
of Laocoon. Indeed the figures seem to shriek audibly and I 
can never look at them without shudder. 

Of course you remember the story — Laocoon, a priest of Nep- 
tune, did not believe the wooden horse should be held as sacred 
and opposed its reception by the Trojans. As punishment for 
this sin against the sacred horse, two great serpents emerged 
from an altar upon which he and his two sons were preparing 
a sacrifice to his god. And fate of the three, strangled to death 

by the serpents at command of the offended Apollo, is wonder- 

148 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 149 

fully told in the famous masterpiece — termed by Michael 
Angelo himself, as a " marvel of art." 

The original is in the Vatican, but this copy here at Naples 
is splendidly good, though if the restoration has been so incor- 
rect, it would be a great work were some sculptor to copy, yet 
rearrange the right arm of Laocoon and the two arms of the 
sons which are also said to be incorrectly restored. Michael 
Angelo might have given a better restoration had he done the 
work — it was he who superintended restoration of the cele- 
brated Farnese Bull now here in the Naples' Museum. This, 
quite as famous as the Laocoon group and held to be the most 
extensive work of ancient sculpture preserved to us. Yet, price- 
less and matchless, it stood for years exposed to all weathers 
in the Villa ! 

'Tis said it has been suggested to Tadolini that he do the 
Laocoon group giving the supposed correct positions to the three 
wrongly restored arms; but he at present is engaged in finish- 
ing the magnificent resting place for the late Pope in St. John 
Lateran — Rome. It is Tadolini, you remember, whose beauti- 
ful Judith is in the Museum at Pittsfield. His splendid work 
is often spoken of here and he, of all living sculptors, seems the 
man who could best gives these corrections to the Laocoon group. 

Mr. T., fortunately for us, stands in the good grace of the 
Director of the Museum and we were invited up into one of the 
holies of holies to see Sandro Botticelli's Madonna and Child — 
one of the loveliest paintings of the whole gallery, and scarcely 
less prized, Correggio's Madonna del Conglio. 

Yet how touching and pathetic it seems that these sweet faded 
pictures of Madonna should ever have been taken from their 
altars where for years tapers burned before them and flowers 
too, were placed by loving hands. In a year or less rearrange- 
ment of the gallery here will be finished and Botticelli's Madonna 
which has brought sweet peace, — to who knows how many weary 
souls ? — will hang again on the gallery walls to be stared at by 
tourists, few of whom will have any love or reverence for 
Madonna in their hearts. Likewise does Correggio's beautiful 
Madonna and other Madonnas faded and sweet of face, patiently 
await rearrangement of the Pinacoteca and the day when men 
and women will come once again, not to kneel in prayer, or 



150 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

leave a votive taper but to give hasty glance as they hurry 
through the rooms^ red guide book in hand. 

Correggio's Madonna is a lovely conception and said to be 
likeness of his wife. About the head of Madonna is draped an 
Oriental scarf which gives to the picture the name also of la 
Zingarella — Gypsy — by which it is perhaps better known than 
as Madonna of the Rabbit. Mr. T. thinks the picture one of 
the best examples of this master's art of chiaroscuro. 

Certain it is that Correggio is chief master in this art, and 
no other artist has been able to successfully imitate Correggio's 
marvelous lights and shades — to bring as he brought down the 
Italian sky to canvas. And if Correggio really came, as the 
story runs, to Rome to see the frescoes of Raphael in the Vati- 
can and after gazing at them for long time, exclaimed ^' Anch* 
io son pittore!" — I too, am a painter — had he not reason? 
For although at that time Correggio was comparatively unknown 
to the public, he himself must have realized something of his 
own genius. 

Mr. T. says it always hurts him to remember that Vasari, that 
famous biographer and dear divine gossip of the artists, should 
have given to Correggio so little space. They both lived at the 
same time, but it is supposed Correggio's life was, compared 
with his talent, very simple and retired — he himself knew his 
own ability and cared not to be lauded by the world. 

And it is possible too that Correggio painted too rapidly to 
please that critical Vasari who found fault that artists of the fif- 
teenth century painted six pictures a year ! whereas earlier mas- 
ters took six years to paint one picture. But what would the dis- 
tinguished Vasari say to the twentieth century artists who think 
they must each paint sixty pictures in a year! Happy for them 
that Vasari is not to be their biographer ! Lucky too, for the 
Neapolitan Giordano that he was a master of the seventeenth 
century rather than contemporary of Vasari, for (his great 
rapidity might well have driven mad art critic who believed in 
devoting six whole years to a single picture. 

'Tis said Luca Giordano's name of Fa Presto by which he 
is so frequently called, M'as given him by fellow artists who 
often heard Giordano's father commanding his son to " Work 
quickly ! " All the proceeds from Luca's pictures were needed 



I 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHIXG 151 

as the family was very poor — poor, like hundreds of art-loving 
Neapolitan families of to-day. So often, perhaps, had his 
father stood by commanding '^ Fa presto! fa presto!'* that tliis 
is the reason that when seventy-two years old, Giordano was 
able to paint the story of Judith on the ceiling of San ]Sfartino 
treasury in only forty-eight hours — so at least the old custodi- 
ans up there love to relate. 

We saw one of his pictures this morning — Pope Alexander 
II consecrating the church of Monte Cassino. And then there 
were two other pictures by Correggio — the beautiful Betrothal 
of St. Catherine with, 5flm 61/10 Gesil and a Holy Child asleep 
— touchingly sweet. Several other old masterpieces were shown 
us also — truly a compliment as few are admitted to see the 
pictures this winter. But as the Director insisted, we four 
Americans were each molto simpatico. 

And perhaps our appreciation made up in little measure for 
the words of some of our countrymen, as only yesterday the 
Director had been sadly wounded by hearing some Americans 
exclaim, " Thank goodness ! the gallery is closed — it's taken 
us an hour for the rest ! " This he repeated to us in his pictur- 
esque English with so sad a mien we could not refrain from 
laughing merrily, though endeavoring bravely to apologize for 
our countrymen. It was so very American — rushing, rushing, 
rushing ! 

Mr. T. much to our embarrassment told of the Tennesseean 
who arrived in his hotel at Rome in a great fret because, as he 
explained, he had been delayed in Florence waiting to have his 
gallery of old masters packed for shipment to America and after 
paying fifteen hundred dollars ( !) for the pictures, found the 
dealer expected him to stand cost of packing also. The Director 
laughed heartily. But surely Signor T. was mistaken — the 
gentleman barbarian could not have come from Tennessee, — 
same state as the noble ladies ! he murmured gallantly. Yet 
Mr. T. was very sure he was not mistaken. 

We reminded Mr. T. while at lunch, that it was a woman from 
his state who said that while abroad, she ran into a flooded town 
called Venice — where she couldn't go anywhere except in a boat, 
and emphatically declared as she related her misfortune, " You 
bet we only stayed one day in all that slosh ! " He has promised 



152 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

never again to mention the Tennesseean who bought the gallery 
of old masters for fifteen hundred — at least not to aristocratic 
Directors of Museums. 

We lunched just across from the Museum in the old Galleria, 
Principe di Napoli — once the pride of Naples, now a very de- 
crepit old place compared with the four million dollar Greek 
Cross Galleria Umberto and the charming little circular Galleria 
Vittoria lately opened. It is very Neapolitan — few tourists, 
though they all come just across to the Museum, ever go into this 
old galleria. Here there are no polyglot waiters with their pain- 
fully precise English. And in the little shops there are no late 
Paris models — no laces which cost a fortune. The shops are 
for the Neapolitans of the humbler class, just as the shops of the 
other galleries are devoted to foreigners. I bought a gay silk 
shawl of multi-colored strips — so fetching I must manage to 
make it adaptable somehow in America, even though I have not 
the hair and eyes of these attractive Neapolitan women — neces- 
sary adjunct I fear to a brilliant Neapolitan shawl. 

Their hair is really lovely. Though coarse, it has been won- 
derfully burnished by sun year after year and is of luxuriant 
growth, for they wear no hats — these dark-eyed women of Na- 
ples. 'Tis only when entering a Church that the little black 
lace mantiglia is donned — being carefully carried to the very 
entrance neatly folded and tucked away in the bosom or inside 
covers of the missal. Yet for many this small black cotton lace 
mantilla is much too expensive a luxury and gay handkerchief 
thrown over the head in church must be made to do. 

After lunch we made a giro down as far as Porta San Gennaro 
— one of the four ancient gates of mediaeval Naples when the 
city was a mile square and enclosed with the walls still to be 
traced. Out through the gate a street leads to the Botanical 
Gardens, brave with their exquisite flowers of all kinds; but we, 
however, chose the long Via del Duomo which leads directly 
down to port. This of course takes its name from the magnifi- 
cent Cathedral and the entire street is filled with shops selling 
images of Saints and Madonna and Bambino Gesii and beauti- 
fully wrought crucifixes; in other shops gorgeous vestments are 
displayed, and marvelous laces for priestly garments as well as 
for the altar; while in other shops nothing but candles and 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 153 

tapers of all sizes. Indeed Barclay Street can no more com- 
pare, than can Broadway with this Toledo. 

Thus was our mind turned to the Cathedral itself and we 
stopped there to see once again the figure of Cardinal Carafa 
in the Confessio — so peacefully kneeling in prayer one forgets 
his tragic death in that old Castel San Angela of Rome. For 
years this figure w^as believed to be work of Michael Angelo_, but 
'tis now attributed to Malvito — still, cM sa? 

Of all great artists, whose work, left without signature, has 
given conflict to the world, Michael Angelo, had his work been 
one degree less splendid, would no doubt have given most trou- 
ble. For in the lovely Pieta which stands in St. Peter's, on the 
robe of Mary Madonna, alone, out of all his work has he placed 
his name. ' 

This was his first great work in Rome, you know, and when 
unveiled was most beautiful group ever shown there. Crowds 
surrounded it in admiration and adoration and 'tis said IVIichael 
Angelo himself sometimes came and mingled with the people as 
they stood or knelt before Madonna holding in her lap the Dead 
Christ. And one day he heard two men in deep discussion as 
to who the artist might be who had executed this marvelous 
work — arguing that a youth of twenty-three, as Michael Angelo, 
could never have designed and chiseled a group so noble. That 
night by light of a dim lantern, he stole into the great silent 
church and cut his name on the girdle of Mary Madonna. And 
so it stands to-day. But 'tis the only time he ever placed his 
name on any of his work. " My work is like no other work and 
no true artist can mistake it," he declared. 

True artists, however, have always been rare and there has 
been work attributed to Michael Angelo, just as this figure of 
Cardinal Carafa was thought to be his, and then it is decided 
by those calling themselves true artists that it is not by the 
great master at all. But who knows? And perhaps, — who 
knows again .^ there are masterpieces scattered here and there 
and attributed to other artists, but in reality work of Michael 
Angelo himself, who since he never modeled in clay but chiseled 
direct from the block itself, felt serenely confident no true artist 
could ever mistake work of his hand. 

Mr. T. loves to believe that after all, the statue of Cardinal 



154 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

Carafa may be by the great master rather than the little known 
Malvito and perhaps, chi sa? could Michael Angelo know that 
critics and Baedeker attribute the work to Malvito, he would 
not rest well in the old Florentine Church in which he lies 
buried, and would steal into the Cathedral here, just as he once 
stole into St. Peter's, and by dim light of the sanctuary lamp 
which ever burns here at San Gennaro's tomb, carve his name for 
second time on hem of the robe of the kneeling Cardinal Carafa. 

A copy of Michael Angelo's beautiful Piethy by the way, is to 
be placed at base of the column which King Victor Emmanuel is 
erecting in honor of his father at Monza — on the very spot 
where Humbert fell victim to the assassin's bullet. 

From the calm quiet of the great golden Cathedral, where 
scarce half a dozen people knelt here and there in prayer, out 
into the rush of the great noisy city, was but a step. In an- 
other moment we had forgotten the kneeling Cardinal Carafa, 
for we were down by the port where life is a brilliant, bizarre 
kaleidoscope. Houses of the Naples yellow which artists love, 
and of old Pompeiian reds and ultramarine blues, honeycombed 
with thousands of balconies, festooned with old clothes, strings 
of drying garlic and brilliant red peppers ! — ah, this is the old 
Naples where one might linger for hours so truly picturesque 
the streets and people. Men, women and children busy in a 
thousand different ways o\ basking like lizards in the sun — 
little shops with great cheeses sewn up in bladders — vivid green 
vegetables — carts of oranges. All picturesque. Out on the 
edge of the street shining fish of a hundred kinds are spread on 
long boards — pans of squirming eels — great baskets of snails 
for soup. Each wonderful delicacy ! 

We bought some apples — poor, knotted and shrunken little 
things which we had watched an old vendor trying to sell. But 
who would blame the people if they did not hasten to buy little 
shrunken apples costing even more than the sweet, luscious 
oranges. These one may buy from the little street carts two 
for a soldo. But apples — ecco! this is quite another proposi- 
tion. So great a luxury apples at this season that never for a 
moment would one think of selling them other than like gold 
— by weight. So the vendors carry their queer old scales — 
steelyards as vendors and shops of Pompeii once knew — as 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 155 

well as their stock which is often almost lost in the large brass 
tray of the scales which serves not only for weighing but as 
receptacle for transportation^ since of course no strolling vendor 
would be so unwise as to lay in a stock of more than a dozen 
apples for one day's business ! 

If perchance business be brisk and some one found disposed 
to buy a whole apple — pray do not smile, for even a quarter is 
often sold! — others constituting the stock are carefully placed 
one by one on the sidewalk. The one selected apple reposing 
alone in the shining brass tray of the scale is with much ex- 
clamation and patient deliberation, weighed ! After deep 
thought and much calculation, price of the apple is announced 
to the would-be purchaser, who then picks up the article that 
closer inspection may be made before she drives her bargain. 
Madonna mia! but there is a worm hole — but a worm hole 
truly! This is exhibited to the spectators who have gathered 
around. For the purchase of an apple — an whole apple ! — 
is an affair in which one needs advice. Non e vero? The spec- 
tators agree that it is indeed a worm hole. Gesu mio! and who 
knows but after paying for a whole apple, that half — but half ! 
may be found cattivo? Another is selected from the stock on 
the sidewalk. The same careful weighing, computing and an- 
nouncing of price, gone through with again. " Santo Dio! '* 
friends of signora exclaim, " a soldo for such a shrunken little 
apple as that ! " And centesimo by centesimo, by brave gesticu- 
lating and vehement argument, price is reduced to half a soldo! 
The apple and money change hands. The money being care- 
fully stored away in an old wallet holding an amulet 'gainst 
evil eye and medal of San Rocco and the apple equally as care- 
fully placed in a blue bordered yellow handkerchief that it may 
be taken home with the snails and dark bread and proudly ex- 
hibited to neighbors before it forms piece de resistance of 
signora's evening meal. 

Another time, perhaps, weighing process would be gone through 
with twice — even thrice, and after much bargaining and ges- 
ticulating on either side, the would-be purchaser's eye is at- 
tracted by a pail in which eels are squirming in the water. And 
after carefully weighing in her mind the merits of eels vers 
apples, the momentous question is decided in favor of the eels. 



156 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

So the old venditore carefully places his slowly diminishing stock 
again in tray of his scales and moves patiently forward with- 
out malice in his heart. For what would you ? An apple — 
an whole apple ! — is not to be sold without patience he in- 
formed us, when we sympathetically expressed opinion of the 
nerve of signora who after engaging him fully ten minutes in 
weighing, computing, and bargaining, had had heartlessness to 
decide in favor of eels. 

And so it was little wonder that when we announced we would 
take the entire remaining stock, that the news spread fast. 
Eccol the signori americani were buying the apples — but five! 
Benedetto Dio! what extravagance to buy five apples when there 
were but four of the signori! And by time the five apples had 
been carefully weighed and price computed, we were quite sur- 
rounded by an eager, animated crowd who politely waited with 
bated breath for the bargaining — always crowning event of a 
purchase here in Naples. But when Mr. T. drew out the price 
named and several soldi over, amazement was great. Madonna 
mia! — but the americani were all millionaires! "Ma che 
vuole? " SL thrifty old dame selling matches confidentially whis- 
pered to F. — " rich or poor, the signori would do well to ex- 
amine the goods before paying! " 

And so we made our way among the people, stopping to chat 
with a young Madonna-faced woman with black-eyed infant, 
while F. and Mr. T. joined in game of Mora with two young 
fellows. They each play remarkably well although 'tis said 
no one but an Italian born can ever play the game with skill — 
Mora is a typical Southern Italian game just as the Tarantella 
is Southern dance. Which the more thrilling — who can decide ? 

It is played between two — one of them suddenly extending 
any number of fingers he may choose and at same moment call- 
ing for some number under eleven. This the opponent must at 
once make up by producing such number of fingers that the 
number called for may be exactly added on the extended fingers 
of the four hands. No easy trick for I have often tried it. If 
the player succeeds without hesitation in making the number 
called for, he, the winner — otherwise the caller. Sometimes 
as much as a soldo is at stake but often 'tis played simply for 
the fun and excitement. The by-standers keeping count in ani- 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 157 

mated rhythm; the uno, due, tre, and so on of the caller and 
the swiftly moving fingers of the players^ make it truly exciting 
and the people will amuse themselves with the game during all 
spare moments of the day and by hours on a festa when work 
is impossible. 

So it was but slowly we made our way to L'Immaccolatella 
Nuova to see a great liner set sail for Nuova York. A large 
North German steamer had just arrived from Genoa and was 
pouring its tourists of all nationalities out through the carna- 
tion pink custom house^ into this great swarming Napoli — tour- 
ists who as they dashed to their hotels through the picturesque 
Neapolitan quarter around the port^ saw dirt and poverty rather 
than the laughter and song which we know are there^ outweigh- 
ing all else an hundred fold. 

Several flower girls in the gay costume of contadina were on 
hand, their baskets full of violets and carnations with which 
to capture the incoming tourists. " Capture " is quite the right 
word, for what man would not be captured after smiling, dark- 
eyed girl in short red skirt and yellow or black velvet corset, 
had deftly fastened, — even as he was engaged in bargaining 
with a jehu — a boutonniere in lapel of his coat? The atten- 
tion may sometimes be a trifle embarrassing to prosaic Britisher 
or American — especially if his wife be standing by ! Yet 
doubtless flower girls are never so unwise as to place a man in 
such predicament, and wife or not, what man is there, once ar- 
rived in this smiling land of Naples, so cruel as to not appear 
well pleased ? No man in the world — except it be Teuton 
maldng his wander jahr. Unlucky flower girls do they dare but- 
tonhole a practical German ! 

One of the flower girls hovering outside the dogana this after- 
noon fell into just such pitiful plight. Perhaps she has not 
long been a flower girl and has not yet heard a saying these 
Neapolitans have — "These Tedesci — they are not men, but 
barbarians ! " Or perhaps she thought her large brown eyes 
and peasant costume with black velvet corset, together with her 
boutonniere^ of double violets, sufficient to capture even a Teuton. 
At least while a ruddy-faced, rotund German stood buying 
cigarettes at the little kiosque near the custom house entrance, 
she quickly slipped in a brave boutonniere. Instead of the usual 



158 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

smile and laugh which the trick occasions, the horrid fellow 
whirled on her and snatching out the violets, threw them with 
angry exclamation to the pavement. 

The girl's face was a study — so surprised was she at the 
unusual action. But picking up the flowers she flung a smile 
and some gay banter at the sullen man. She, one might think, 
would be the one to be sullen at having her flowers ruthlessly 
cast aside, — but not she. For these Neapolitans of the lower 
classes have the most wonderful patience of any people whom 
we've ever known. " Pazienza! pazienza! " one hears mur- 
mured every day. And the girl's patience was not in vain for 
in another moment she had spied F. and Mr. T. where we stood 
only a few feet away taking in the awful tragedy. 

With rapturous smile she had in another moment bravely fas- 
tened boutonniere on each man, who accepted the favor with 
gallant thanks, loud enough that they might reach ears of the 
stolid Teuton who now stood watching us. As we moved into 
the custom house, who could blame the girl if she threw cold 
glance of triumph in direction of the florid German? For 
debonair F. and Mr. T. had not only accepted the flowers grace- 
fully but had taken them as a gift, — quite the proper course 
you must understand, when buttonholed by one of these capti- 
vating girls, since these brown-eyed flower girls of Napoli con- 
duct their business on no such mercenary plan as do flower girls 
of London and Paris. And when we came out the dogana an 
hour later, and F. walked up to the girl and slipped a two 
franc piece into her sun-browned palm, that too, you see, was 
but a gif t ! 

Hundreds of Neapolitans were sailing in steerage of the 
large White Star liner this afternoon — bound for the New 
World where doubtless each soul expects to make a fortune 
tremendous in a few years and return to his dolce Napoli to 
spend rest of his life living like a prince ! 

But even the glamour of riches waiting in America could not 
offset sadness of the parting for many. There was an old 
father and mother who had come to see their son off — perhaps 
their only son, for the three were quite alonie. They had 
brought some oranges carefully done up in a gay yellow and red 
handkerchief; For had they not heard that in New York only 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 159 

the millionaires might eat the oranges? And as his mother 
kissed him and clung to him weepings she pressed the little 
bundle into his hand. The old father, too, was weeping as he 
affectionately kissed and embraced the son setting out for the 
strange land. For was not America very far distant and who 
knew but before time for the son's return, both he and the old 
mother would rest in the Campo Santo. There were other sad 
families also, with some one or perhaps two members about to 
leave this sweet Naples for cold, prosaic America. And once 
there they will begin to realize what they have left in search 
of gold. For they will find no sunshine such as this of Naples 
in which the magic of moonlight is somehow mixed — no cielo 
sereno under which to bask. 

And as the liner with her crowds of dark-eyed steeragers 
moved slowly out through the scintillating sapphire of the bay, 
Parthenope the Siren doubtless knew that on that great vessel 
there was not a son of Napoli but who would soon long to be 
back again where sun is ever kind and warm and sky is always 
blue. 



I 



* . . . enchanted land, whose beauty is inexhaustible and 
whose boundless interests touch and will always touch, men and 
women who perceive the deepest concerns of the human soul." 

"Italica." — William Roscoe Thayer 



•!• * 



TO G. 



Naples, January — 

TRUE, to-day was not a festa, yet it has been filled with 
churches — just as all Napoli is filled with churches. For 
here one cannot go a step without encountering a church — 
large or small, rich or humble. And to the poveri who find only 
shelter in some dark, crowded room these churches afford an 
only home — home, where once the heavy padded leathern cur- 
tain which guards each chiesa door has dropped upon them, they 
may find the sweet sympathy of that Catholic Faith which ever 
meets all needs and touches the hearts of these simple, yet so 
subtle, people of the South as nothing else in wide world could 
do. Here for them, unsought, unknown of tourist, the one 
perfect Mother, Mary Madonna is ever waiting — Mother of 
many sorrows with sympathy for theirs. 

It was long before the hour in which even the so madly rush- 
ing tourists think of appearing, that Maria and I were off to 
Messa in our own parish church down the Rione — cara chiesa 
where, in spite fact this is aristocratic quarter of the city, many 
humble prayers of humble people have been said for many long 
years. There is the wonderful old cupola that I love too, mar- 
velously frescoed with Our Lady and her angels on which the 
sun of mid-day sheds rays of gold — gold as true as the gold 
of the precious Crucifix on the High Altar. And not the least 
of the old church's many treasures is that Giuseppe, our weather- 
beaten, wrinkled old verger. Ever so honest that he never fails 
to give back correct change when we pay for our chairs though 
it would be simple matter, e vero, did one believe stories tourists 
love to repeat of these people, to make mistake in the dim, 

160 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 161 

shadowy church or at least give out some of the counterfeit 
money with which all Napoli is overrun this winter. 

Later we went down into the Villa — this same Villa where 
George EHot with Mr. Lewes used to sit and wrote — " there is 
nature in transcendent beauty. We both think it the most beau- 
tiful place in the world." Which admission from a woman so 
prosaic has given me courage to look at her " Lettres d'un Voy- 
ageur," though women who dress like men have surely no more 
attraction for me than would a man in feminine attire. Yet F. 
pretends to admire both woman and her books^ declaring my 
antipathy comes not so much because she masqueraded as a man, 
but hated Italian beggars, priests and Rome. He forgets no 
doubt she referred to his splendid Rome of Apostles and Mar- 
tyrs as the kingdom of Satan. 'Tis said she was so very pains- 
taking to look up all details of certain century costumes et cetera 
for each of her novels, yet judging from rash statements in 
matters far more important she might well have used her time 
more profitably. For just as one must have keen knowledge 
of the Bible and Apocrypha to understand and love Italian art, 
so too must one have keen knowledge of the lives that have been 
lived here before they can understand and love Italy itself. 

But Maria coolly refused me the joy of sitting in the Villa 
sunshine a la George Eliot this morning, I having sat there last 
Sunday morning reading Leopardi with the sun beating its gold 
down on my back, till when reaching home Maria discovered my 
Alice blue Roman pearls had melted and run together clinging 
to my blouse in hopeless fashion. She scolded me properly 
jou may be sure — an Italian maid takes greater liberties than 
one's own sister would dare ten times over ! Though the scold- 
ing was not, as she elaborately explained to mammina because 
the blouse was made by hand and cost Buon Dio knew how many 
precious lire! but because la signorina had better have been em- 
ployed with her missal in the church like she herself, rather 
than in the P^illa with a sentimental poet who refused to be 
happy even here in this adorable, laughing Napoli. Chi sa in- 
deed, but that she was quite correct? 

And so this morning she having refused to allow me to stop, 
we strolled around at the heels of the loquacious old gardeners 
who, here in January, boldly lay out their fantastic beds of 



162 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

flowers^ yet ever have time to gossip with nurse-maids and 
Maria. Winning her Tuscan heart by telling her confidentially 
that la signorina americana is simpatica — che-e-e but simpatica! 
Highest compliment Italian can pay, for you must remember we 
are in Italy where to be beautiful is natural to all, where ele- 
gance matters little — sympathy everything. Though more at- 
tractive to me — I confess it you ! — than the old gardeners 
who call me so simpatica is that debonair young gardener who 
ever calls me la signorina belV, and whom I call Donatello since 
he is just such a faun no doubt as Hawthorne must have known. 
Yet not indeed, that I have any confidence in Hawthorne's power 
to portray an Italian, any more than could he portray this helV 
Italia. Though what could one expect remembering that it was 
of our own beautiful Lenox and Stockbridge he wrote — " I hate 
Berkshire with my whole soul and would joyfully see its moun- 
tains laid flat." Surely not many rhapsodies on things Italian ! 
Donatello was busy round Duke Robert's granite basin as 
we approached this morning, but not too engaged to stop to 
pick some flowers for me and discuss with Maria in voluble 
tongue some startling features of last week's Tombola drawing 
— the orphan child who draws the numbers not having been 
blindfolded to satisfaction of the entire city congregated in the 
densely packed by-way back of Santa Chiara to witness the 
thrilling play. Mamma mia! 

Duke Robert's great granite basin, by the way, is most pre- 
cious treasure of the entire mile-long Villa. A splendid thing 
brought by that illustrious Duke Robert Guiscard from Paestum 
as piece de resistance for court of his magnifijcent Salerno 
Cathedral. No doubt he would be sadly annoyed could he be- 
hold it here in the rival city. Though I myself should think 
loss of the fountain matters little to the old Salerno Cathedral 
since it is honored, as we ourselves saw while there, by the 
ashes of that noble Gregory the Seventh — that Chigniac monk 
Hildebrand, who grew to boyhood like Our Divine Lord in home 
of a poor carpenter and through his sweet, ascetic life and 
piety, no less than by his will, rose to highest honor Church 
could offer, and this in age when corruption was at zenith. 
And there in the quiet of the old Salerno Cathedral he sleeps 
■ — Hildebrand the monk who loved justice and hated iniquity 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 163 

and for that died in exile here on this Naples Riviera. Yet 
what better place in the world than here to write those sweet 
words — Requiescat in Pace? 

I was still thinking of the great basin stolen from Salerno 
and of that far greater treasure, the Pandects of Justinian, 
stolen from the Amalfitani and now guarded by that Illustrious 
Cavalier Guido Biagi, as most precious of all treasures in that 
great treasure-house, Laurenziana, when Mr. T. came driving 
by, begging me to help him find a model. For Mr. T. prowls 
through the old quarters of this Napoli hunting the face he 
needs, much as that great Balzac used to walk the Paris streets 
studying names over shop entrances till he found the one suit- 
ing his fancy for one of his characters. So he and I were soon 
plunged into those picturesque streets round the Jesuit Gesit 
Nuovo in our hunt — through the tortuous old streets where once 
walked perhaps the little Torquato Tasso on way to school to 
the Jesuit fathers. So earnest in his seeking after all they 
could teach him that he often insisted on starting for school 
before daylight ! being escorted by a faithful servant bearing a 
flickering torch through these so dark little streets where lamps 
of love did not then burn as now before Madonna. 

But we did not easily find the face we sought, pensive and 
sad as Antinous — all the world seemed laughing in our face 
like the very city itself. And we found ourselves at San Do- 
menico where model was forgotten, since it was here at San 
Domenico you know, that many saints have tarried. Here, San 
Antonino himself preaching and instituting monastic reforms. 
And 'tis told of how one severe winter killed all the orange 
and lemon trees in the garden belonging to the Sisters of the 
Order of San Domenico here in Naples, except one single lemon 
tree which the saint had planted for them with his own hands. 
F. — true American that he is ! — thought the Vicar-General of 
all Domenican convents both in Tuscany and Naples might very 
probably have been too occupied to spend time in such humble 
labor as planting a lemon tree for the Sisters. Yet I reminded 
him it was no other than that blessed San Antonino who, unlike 
all previous Archbishops, humbly and reverently made his way 
alone and barefoot through the streets of Florence to the old 
Duomo when he himself was to be vested with the office. Here, 



164, CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

too, once lived that even greater saint, Thomas of Aquinas — 
saint, who, like San Antonino, learned more by prayer than by 
study. Here it was in the adjoining convent he compiled that 
Office of the Blessed Sacrament as used by the Church to-day at 
Corpus Christi. Here was written the Salutaris Hostia sung 
all over the world at each Blessing of the Blessed Sacrament. 
And having composed the wonderful office at command of Pope 
Urban 4th, it was here in this great, sweet San Domenico he 
knelt one day before a Crucifix in prayer and lo ! the Christ of 
the Crucifix spoke, saying — "Well hast thou written of me O 
Thomas! What reward askest thou of me?" And the saint 
answered, "O my Lord! I desire no reward but Thee! " What 
other answer indeed could one expect from one so sweet and 
angelic as Saint Thomas Aquinas ? 

And here so unlike that blessed saint one scarcely dares men- 
tion them in the same breath — at least never in same paragraph 
— lived that renegade Bruno, having to be brought to task by 
the fathers even during his novitiate for giving away images of 
the saints. And disputing later with want of both piety and pru- 
dence on the Holy Mysteries, until having fled the cloisters and 
Italy, the dons of Oxford, to his joy, condescended to allow him 
to lecture on his favorite themes of Soul and Sphere. Audacious 
themes for son of St. Dominic — non e vero? 'Tis told pathet- 
ically here that when statue to Bruno was dedicated by this 
Young Italy a few years ago on the spot in Rome where in 1600 
Bruno was burned as heretic, disdaining the crucifix they offered 
him, it was seen that night the light burned late in apartments 
of His Holiness, Leo XIII. And growing alarmed as one 
o'clock came and the light still burned, some of his chamberlains 
knocked, but receiving no answer, quietly opened the door to find 
the Holy Father kneeling in prayer and weeping at the offense 
to the Church. 

Indeed so rich and rare in its treasures and its memories this 
old San Domenico that as we came out, bells were ringing in 
Ave Maria gratia plena — those words Gabriel himself con- 
stantly repeats in Paradise, if we may trust that divine Dante 
who looks down on us from his pedestal on the Toledo. And 
each time one passes him, one wonders did he, like all other 
mighty men, once know this Naples of the Siren .^ Forsooth 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 165 

one might be quite sure he had looked o'er crater of that ma- 
jestic Vesuve before he wrote so vividly of burning regions, Mr. 
T. suggested, as we strolled by him on our way home this noon. 
Returning a pied since at noon hour on the teeming Toledo one 
makes more progress on foot than in carriage. . 

One must make two promenades on Toledo each day to be 
quite Neapolitan you know — a pied in morning, en voiture in 
the afternoon. And though as the old saying runs, tutto al 
mondo goes on foot in the morning, one wonders where it started 
since Toledo, morning as well as afternoon, is ever seething mass 
of cabs and carriages, 'buses and autos — always, except on 
Maundy Thursday and Holy Friday morning. On those two 
days no cracking of cocker's whip, no tinkling of bells on the 
rubber-shod carriage horses, no rumble of heavy 'buses, no toot- 
ing of auto horns. For on Holy Thursday and on Good Friday 
all carriages are barred from the street — only pedestrians be- 
ing allowed. 'Tis on Holy Thursday as people throng the long 
street on the way to visit the seven Sepulchres, that the promenade 
known as Lo Struscio takes place — quaintly so called from 
rustle of the stiff silk gowns which women of the nobility used to 
wear. How very different must be this quiet rustle of Maundy 
Thursday and the death-like silence of Holy Friday, compared 
with the bustling Toledo of all other days in the year. 

Coming home we stopped a moment in church of San Fer- 
dinando — a church we pass several times each day as it stands 
at very head of this long Via Toledo. There is little of note 
and the church is seldom mentioned in guide books, yet it has air, 
old, serene and content, as though fact it has given name to 
the most prominent piazza in all Naples is quite sufficient to 
make up for any lack of tombs of famous royalty or wonderful 
treasures. And yet though it lacks these treasures which guide 
books and tourists consider paramount, it is rich in a beautiful 
altar to Madonna from which she smiles down into upturned 
face of many a swarthy cabman, many a humble vendor and 
many a dark-eyed girl who weary from work slips out of the 
whirling, seething life about Piazza San Ferdinando into the 
quiet and dim of the old church. 

After lunch Conte C. came to take us to Santa Maria del 
Carmine — an old church of the old quarter. On our way there 



166 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

we stopjDed at Castel Nuovo — Bastile of Naples. 'Tis said that 
the Triumphal Arch at the entrance here is one of the finest 
pieces of work now left in Naples. The bronze gates under 
the Arch are also very handsome, furnishing splendid examples 
of historical compositions used in relief by artists of the quat- 
trocento. The noble old Castle — for it is of the thirteenth cen- 
tury spite its contradictory name of " New Castle " — once served 
as important defense of the port and also as royal palace and 
is full of history. Here conspiracies wonderful and plots dark 
were formed and here a Pope was made and also abdicated his 
throne. 

From here we drove down past Immacolatella Nuova into most 
populous, picturesque portion of Naples — the old Naples, brood- 
ing and murmuring with her ancient mj'^steries. Here life 
teems with picturesque — one might linger here for hours among 
the people. But tourists seldom come except for hasty glance 
inside Santa Maria del Carmine. The odors ! the dirt ! the beg- 
gars ! how can one care for the old Neapolitan quarters ? they will 
ask. And one answers merely with a Neapolitan shrug. For 
one may reason in vain that the dirt is of Naples, hence pic- 
turesque; just ^s the odors from a large caldron of snail soup 
or from fish and eels frying, with garlic over a little brazier, 
are of Naples, hence savory; that the beggars who ask you for 
a soldo, 'per I'amor di Dio e della Santa Maria are also of 
Naples, hence, simple people of warm-hearted ways. 'Tis quite 
in vain to repeat any of this to tourists over whom the Siren of 
Naples has yet to fling her Spell. 

And the heart of all this Old World Naples is there in Piazza 
del Mercato — so at least it seemed to-day. Here the people, 
their life, and their homes are steeped in the Old World atmos- 
phere of this Naples of the Siren. For does not the head of 
the divine Parthenope, the goddess of Sirens, rest here on an 
old column, ever reminding the Neapolitans they are children 
cf tlie sea ? — that no other people has been so favored by 
Siren? The head is very old — no one living knows from 
whence it came. Yet had one time to listen and mingle with the 
people, one would hear marvelous tales of this ancient a'cape e 
Napole — head of Naples. 

But one cannot think long of even Parthenope, founder of 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 167 

this great murmuring city by the sea, for it was here in Piazza 
Mercato that the little Conrad was beheaded. One remembers 
too, that as he knelt here, nobly waiting blows of the execu- 
tioner, his mother in anguish was entering the harbor, hasten- 
ing with the ransom to purchase the life of her son. Yet too 
late. Once she was arrived in the city — the little Conrad was 
dead. 'Tis said that with the ransom his mother brought too 
late to save his life, was founded the original Church of Santa 
Maria del Carmine which stands nearby — its red and gray 
tower looking down on the Piazza, filled now with gossipy, ges- 
ticulative, gladsome people, yet once Piazza of many turbulent 
scenes. 

For Conradin alone was not executed here. Here died also 
and not less bravely, Frederick of Baden, Conradin's life-long 
companion and devoted friend. Here too, a member of the C. 
family was beheaded — so a guide book says which I've been 
looking over to-night. Conte C. himself would hardly be ex- 
pected to mention such an item, though in visiting churches with 
him, the old vergers waxing loquacious and little dreaming who 
this Neapolitan with us may be, will often, while showing tomb 
or chapel of the C. family — most prominent of all old Neapoli- 
tan families for many centuries — take pains to relate some 
romantic or tragic incident of their history — most amusing to 
Conte C, since doubtless the version of old vergers is often ex- 
aggerated to fit the fee. 

Likewise was the old verger in Santa Maria del Carmine, in 
talkative mood this afternoon and eager to tell of all the treas- 
ures which his old church holds. Treasures truly ! for though 
Baedeker does not tell you so, it is rich in treasures and in 
legends — this Santa Maria del Carmine. There is the mar- 
velous, miraculous picture of the Virgin, painted by St. Luke 
and held in such great veneration by Neapolitans for its healing 
power, that in July all Naples comes here on pilgrimage. There 
is also the miracle Cross — most precious of all the treasures. 
For during siege of the city by the Prince of Aragon, when a 
cannon ball shot through the church and in another moment 
would have touched the precious Crucifix, did not the Gesii of 
the cross, incline His head and course of the great ball was 
changed. 



168 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

Here also is tomb of the blue-eyed boy King Conradin — 
Regis Conradini Corpus — with handsome statue of the youth- 
ful Bavarian — work modelled by the famous Thorwaldsen. Two 
reliefs on the pedestal represent the sad parting of Conradin 
from his mother in the Tyrol ere he set out to take his kingdom. 
On the other side is portrayed the parting, just before execution, 
between Conradin and his staunch friend, Frederick of Baden. 
In the statue itself, Thorwaldsen has modeled the little Conrad 
sweet and serious of expression — his golden hair waving boy- 
ishly from beneath his crown, one hand on his hip, while the 
other rests lightly on his sword. So perhaps stood he as he 
received the Neapolitan deputies begging him to come and claim 
his hereditary rights. Few are the Germans who come to Naples 
to-day and leave without paying homage to this tomb of the 
brave young countryman, who while fighting for his kingdom., 
was betrayed and beheaded and now lies in the quiet of Santa 
Maria del Carmine. 

Yet it was not always quiet and peaceful here in Santa Maria 
del Carmine. Masaniello, who it is said, might have been an 
earlier Garibaldi, was murdered here within its walls. And in 
Piazza del Mercato, the handsomest of the Fountains, there is 
Fontana di Masaniello since it was here in this Piazza where 
people are busy now as then with their thousand duties and 
basking in the warm sunshine, that the great revolution was 
kindled by Masaniello — the young fisherman of Amalfi roused 
to fury because his wife had been fined a hundred ducats for 
endeavoring to smuggle, disguised as bambino, three pounds of 
flour into the city. Who knows what the history of Naples 
might be had the young fellow not lost his head through vic- 
tory? Yet to hold for eight days reins of a great city such as 
Naples was doubtless sufficient to turn head of any fisherman — 
Amalfitano or NeajDolitan. And so it was, unable to stand his 
capricious despotism longer, that he was assassinated by his own 
followers in this old Carmelite Church — but step from the 
piazza in which he had first raised flag of rebellion. 

But tlie hot, lazy sun has long ago washed out all trace of 
turbulent revolutions and executions. Here now the people play 
at mora and compare their biglietti di lotto, cook their food and 
draw their water, laugh and bask in the sunshine. One makes 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 169 

their way but slowly among the people, and if some solemn dark- 
eyed piccoli beg you for soldi and you give them not, it is only 
because you have not heard, for your thoughts are all of the 
irresistible Conrad, — " giovinotto — con la chioma d'oro, con la 
pupilla del color del mare." 

And making your way am]ong the people you come soon to the 
Church of the Holy Cross and in here too, one's thoughts are 
of Conradin, for the verger will show you, just as he showed us, 
carved block of marble — the very block on which the blue-eyed 
Swabian boy and his gallant friend were beheaded. You re- 
member as you look at it, that it was just a moment before his 
execution that, brave and courageous to the end, Conradin drew 
off his glove and threw it into midst of the assembled crowd 

— last pledge of vengeance. 

From here we sauntered up a street, Lavinaro — very ancient 
street of Naples, teeming with picturesque. And in a little side 
street near-by we found another old church, San Pietro ad Aram 

— so old that its origin is shrouded in darkness, though 'tis 
said to have been established by St. Peter himself when he 
came from Antioch to Napoli. Chi sa? There were some beau- 
tiful paintings, old and darkened by age, like the Chiesa itself, 
and these the verger unveiled for us with loving touch. He too, 
was old and his slow and faltering step as he led us around 
seemed in keeping with the Basilica. So, also, an old wrinkled 
woman who tottered in to say her rosary. We three felt much 
too young, too modern — quite out of place here where all was 
faded and old — but old e vero! 

Among the pictures there was one we especially admired by 
the Neapolitan Luca Giordano. Some one, — Hawthorne, very 
likely ! — declared old pictures were kept veiled in the Italian 
Churches, simply that visitors might pay to see them! It is 
not so at all. Each Church, even the humblest, prizes her old 
pictures and works of art with something so akin to reverence, 
they would deem it almost sacrilege to have them always ex- 
posed. And though veiled from the cold eyes of tourists, they 
still make the sunshine of these Italian churches with harmonies 
of ivories and mauves, ochres and delicate rose and violet. 

Near here is Porta Nolana with two towers yet standing on 
the old city wall. But we^ however^ were not interested in the 



170 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

ancient gate or wall, nor yet in the handsome white marble 
Church of the Most Holy Annunziata which stands near-by, but 
were in foolish quest of the cow horns said to be placed here 
on walls of old buildings — amulets against the evil eye. We 
could find only two, though doubtless there are many more, for 
horns, you must know, in some form, are most common of all 
the many forms of amulets against evil eye. Indeed all charms 
whether they take the form of a crocodile, a mystic eye, a ser- 
pent or a grasshopper, or one of a hundred other forms, are 
each called '' un corno " — so great the stress placed on the 
horns ! And perchance one finds himself entirely without an 
amulet of any kind and his hands so employed that he cannot 
make the horns with his fingers and at this dire moment has the 
awful fortune to meet a jettatore, there is yet one resource left. 
By simply uttering the word " carno " the impending danger 
may be averted. Though this is a great risk to be sure, and 
few are they in this old Naples through which we sauntered 
this afternoon, who will venture out without an amulet in more 
material form than that formed by fingers or uttered by lips. 
Horns of gold, silver, mother of pearl, copper, coral, lava, 
amber. Horns everywhere. Ma che vuole? — we are in 
Naples ! Mysterious Naples of great beauty, and old supersti- 
tions which have lived — who can say how many long centuries ? 
Not far from Porta Nolana is the handsome Porta Capuana 
— another great center of picturesque Neapolitan life, though 
I myself love better Piazza Mercato. Perhaps because Con- 
radini last saw from there the blue Italian sky. And this after- 
noon. Porta Capuana with its gay bedecked booths and vendors 
of cheese, with strings of onions and garlic 'round their necks, 
and vendors of rings of dark bread carried on poles and small 
cakes and snails and squirming, wriggling eels, and golden oranges 
and terra cotta cactus fruit; its moving kitchens cooking all 
sorts of odorous foods and soups ; its people gossipy and gestic- 
ulative — all had little joy for us. For looking down toward 
the sea, we could see the lofty red tower of Santa Maria del 
Carmine pointing straight up into azure sky, and knew that 
within the quiet old Church the boy Conradini slept — Conradin 
with the hair of gold and with eyes the color of the sea. 



And murmuring Naples, spire o'er topping spire. 
Sits on the slope beyond where Virgil sleeps." 

— Bryant 



•4- -i- 



TO G. 

Naples^ January — At Virgil's Tomb 
^ ^ A T Virgil's honored tomb I sit and sing " — so wrote, you 
Jim. know, the Neapolitan Statins from perhaps this identical 
spot as he came to pay homage to this Prince of Latin poets. 
We also have come here this morning and at this shrine with 
most perfect view in wide world spread out before us, one does 
not marvel that the farmer's son of Mantua wrote such great 
works if his ^neid and Georgics were indeed composed here 
at Naples. And how much less wonder is there he should have 
begged the Emperor Augustus that his remains be buried on 
this slope of dolce Napoli which he loved so well? 

Aside from the superb panorama there is nothing of magnifi- 
cence or grandeur here at his tomb — a modest little ruin with 
the simple epitaph, his humble autobiography 'tis said, which 
translated runs: 

" In lovely Mantua was my childhood home. 
Till my ambition lured me forth to Rome; 
Flocks, fields and heroes have inspired my breast. 
And now on Naples' sunny slope I rest." 

But Vesuvius with towering strength will forever stand as 

monument to guard his resting place — monument which will not 

fall prey to relic hunters as have other monuments erected here 

by man. 

Of course there are those foolish iconoclasts who insist on 

doubting this really being Virgil's grave, but all their objections 

seem of little import compared with the great mass of facts of 

long centuries. For ever since the first century poets and others 

171 



172 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

have flocked here j^ear after year to pay homage. Greatest of 
all these^ St. Paul, who came here in the February or March of 
61, during the time he spent at Pozzuoli, if we may believe 
tradition and the old hymn sung in the Mantuan Churches in 
Middle Ages — 

" When to Virgil's tomb they brought him. 
Tender grief and pity wrought him 
To bedew the stone with tears; 
What a saint I might have crowned thee. 
Had I only livdng found thee 
Poet flrst and without peers ! " 

We have no patience with our Iconoclast of Vermont who in- 
sisted that St. Paul was surely far too engaged during his seven 
days in teaching the Christians of Puteoli to find time for sight- 
seeing, — at least not for visiting the doubtful grave of a poet 
who believed in gods and goddesses ! F. and I declare it most 
natural thing in the world that those friends whom St. Paul 
found at Pozzuoli should have taken himi to visit the great 
poet's grave and point out from this spot the marvelous beauty 
of Naples. Her bay through whose sapphire the " Castor and 
Pollox " had come riding a few days before; Vesuvius, which un- 
like the active Etna he had seen during the voyage to Syracuse, 
was then a slumbering volcano with vineyards and gardens. At 
its feet he beheld Pompeii and Herculaneum, gay with Greek 
gayety and little dreamed that in but very few years the sleep- 
ing Vesuve would have worked their ruin and in the coming 
centuries tourists would come to Virgil's tomb and look across 
to a mysterious ghostly city of the dead with hundreds and 
hundreds of roofless houses standing under the same Neapolitan 
sunshine which shone on them in 61. Surely St. Paul, did they 
bring him here, must have been deeply moved by glory of the 
scene which far outstrips that of the Puteoli coast, and the mar- 
velous beauty to those new Christians and saints who no doubt 
understood as St. Gregory has beautifully said, " God dwelleth 
within all things, without all things," must have made far greater 
appeal than to those who worshiped the old Greek and Roman 
gods. And if St. Luke came too, one can hardly imagine how 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 173 

deeply impressive this beauty must have been to his artistic soul. 
For though the Jerusalem they left behind them was so fair and 
altogether lovely, yet surely this Napoli, even then, surpassed 
Jerusalem, just as she surpasses all corners of earth to-day. 

Petrarch came here also, accompanied by Robert the Wise, and 
planted a tree to take the place of a gigantic bay which 'tis said 
strangely died on the death of the divine Dante. And here 
Boccaccio came, vowing, in spite of his father's wishes, to walk 
in the footsteps of the Virgil to whom he paid homage. But as 
mammina has just inquired — What Italian would not be a poet 
having stood in this hallowed spot and looked out on these 
matchless surroundings where beauty and loveliness are raised 
to nth power ! 

I am quite humble when I remember now my murderous trans- 
lation of Virgil's Mneid — doubtless written on this divine 
Neapolitan shore over which I'm so wild to-day. Did we tell 
you that at Pompeii we saw quotations from Virgil scratched 
on the outer walls of some of the houses ? — probably written 
there by children as they passed to schools where almost two 
thousand years ago, they, as we, puzzled over the Latin of this 
great poet whose tomb is here on the sunny slope of dolce 
Napoli. 

Coming from Virgil's tomb we paid homage to another Italian 
poet, Count Giacomo Leopardi, who has written such sad, sweet 
things and is adored by these Neapolitans. He lies buried in 
a church at Fuorigrotta, the picturesque village at foot of Vir- 
gil's resting place. An old priest with kindly eyes and shabby 
soutane showed us the tomb and if his praise was less of the 
dead poet than of the noble Neapolitan Ranieri, the friend who 
devoted himself to Leopardi like a lover, who would object? 
At least not I. For sad as was the life of the frail, lonely 
Leopardi, I myself find in Ranieri my hero — not the pathetic, 
pessimistic poet others adore. 

We had lunch with Marchesa L. at their villa. She is quite 
as charming as ever — is so perfectly happy with the marchese 
and he so devotedly in love with her. All thdse who are forever 
declaring, " Whom the Atlantic hath put asunder let no man 
join together," should but know them. She is become a true 



174 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

Neapolitan and finds no end of amusement at expense of her 
prosaic country people who come here so engrossed with thoughts 
of being practical and teaching these Italians that horrid Amer- 
ican trick of ever being practical, that they miss all charm of 
this adorable land of dolce far niente. 

We had coifee in the garden, where orange trees with their 
" lamps of gold in a green night " give eternal fairy-land ap- 
pearance to all Neapolitan gardens. The gardens at Casa L. 
are especially enchanting with fountains and grinning satyrs 
and languid nymphs, and a quaint old sun-dial taken from a 
monastery suppressed by this secular hand of Young Italy, 
the air ever suffused with fragrance distilled by millions of 
orange blossoms there in profusion coincident with the fruit. 
Everyone has the orange trees in their gardens here, which at 
this season are laden as it were with so many golden apples, 
making Naples a great garden of the Hesperides ! 

Last night we were at Teatro Sannazaro, an elegant and 
aristocratic little play-house, to see " Papa Eccellenza " — a 
drama much talked of just now in Naples. The acting was 
splendid and as usual there was a clever little farce given at end 
of the play proper which is really a happy custom. One always 
goes home in gay good spirits. 

But to-night we have spent a truly enchanting evening in 
driving over the city by moonlight en auto with F. and an Italian 
friend staying with him for a few days — Tenente el Conte V. 
of Turin. Nights here in Italy are heavenly. Chateaubriand 
has said, you know, '^ Ce ne sont pas des tenehres mais seulement 
Vahsence du jour/* and quite truly. Of such wonderful love- 
liness and charm are they that one has little need of moon- 
light, as in America and the northern countries, to make night 
full of beauty. And with gibbous moon sailing gloriously 
through the heavens as to-night, one realizes how very near 
heaven this earth can be. Running back and forth the long 
Carraciolo by the sea at night is a joy forever. The world is 
full of mystery. CasteV delV Ovo, holding in its great stony 
heart secrets of Virgil and magic art, is full of ghosts of long, 
long ago. So too, the old Palazzo Donn' Anna down near the 
Mergillina. The softly splashing sound of the sea carries the 
sirens' songs if you but half listen and if you but half look you 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 175 

will see that the nymphs have left their pedestals in the Villa 
and sport among the shadows of the great ilex trees. While 
high above the city, brooding in solemn state, San Martino looks 
down on Naples, and inside her great walls ghostly white-robed 
figures flit again to midnight Matins. But this, the mysterious 
Naples a tourist may never know. 

Which reminds me that we too are to be mere tourists to- 
morrow, starting early for Caserta — town about twenty-two 
miles from here where Sir William and the beautiful Lady Ham- 
ilton and other famous people have had their country places. 
There is a handsome Royal Palace there — called Versailles of 
Naples and Conte V. wishes to see some friend stationed at the 
military post. I will leave this open till after our return since 
it will reach you quite as soon. May the gods send us a day 
only half as fine as this night and we are content. 

How we wished you might have been with us to-day! You 
would surely have found the Italian officers delightfully agree- 
able. I, for one, found them far more interesting than palazzo 
or park, but don't be frightened, carissimo, even though the 
M.'s have decided to adopt a conte into their family. Chacun 
a son gout — n*est ce pas? 

The drive was superb. Past the first peak of purple-gray 
Vesuvius whose tully plume wafted in direction to insure us 
perfect day — Vesuve a famous weather prophet you know for 
all Naples. Then past the second peak, for contrary to popular 
idea, this mountain has really two distinct peaks, though most 
of the views are taken from such point as to show only the 
single. But the view which we ourselves have constantly from 
our rooms Ihere, is more like Saddle Back Mountain in the 
Berkshires than any mountain I know in the world. Yet heaven 
forbid I should compare that saintly placid Saddle Back with 
this Mephistophelean Vesuve. 

Che tempo fa oggi! Bold frank sunshine — sky of true blue 
the Robbia loved for altar pieces — laughing world — Apen- 
nines sleeping in the sunshine — mystery. A contadina in blue 
skirt, faded by wind and rain and sunshine, and over her blue- 
black hair a handkerchief of yellow vieing in color with the 
great fields of golden flowering mustard swaying in the zephyr. 



176 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 



^ 



The cheerful '' Buon giorno " of a much sun-browned young 
peasant couple on way to Naples looking every inch another 
Masaniello and Berardina, though the bundle Berardina carried 
was clearly not flour, but a black-eyed, blinking bambinino so 
cunning mamma made F. stop the car. Then on again over 
the white road along which the birds of St. Francis chanted so 
joyfully we were tempted to toss out to them the box of cakes 
Calflish had put in the tea-basket. It was that sweet Saint 
Francis, wasn't it, who besought people to scatter grain for his 
brothers and sisters, the birds, on each Feast of the Nativity 
that they might rejoice with men and be glad. But here the 
birds are always glad — always chanting boisterously and wait 
not on grain, for under these Southern skies and glad gold of 
the sun of this semi-Paradise, all the world sings a great Gloria 
all the year round. 

Before reaching Caserta one passes through the smiall town 
of Maddaloni — picturesque place with chatting women and 
many brown-eyed bambini and only the ruins of some feudal 
castles to remind one of that Duke of Maddaloni, Carafa, whose 
history is interwoven with that of the rebellious Masaniello. 
The orange groves are lovely around Maddaloni — brave now 
with Hesperian gold. And short distance beyond one catches 
glimpses of the massive aqueduct, a noble piece of work twenty- 
one miles in length built to conduct water from the mountains 
to the park at Caserta. Near here too is the monument which 
has been raised in memory of those brave on^ who fell in battle 
of I860 between the King of Naples and the victorious Gari- 
baldi. And when a little later he entered Naples as Dictator 
riding in that grand gala old coach with its dropsical cherubs 
now reposing in San Martina Museum — no doubt he entirely 
forgot that only a few years before he had been working as a 
humble candle-maker on Bleecker Street, New York. 

The ruins of ancient Caserta are to be seen on the hill-tops 
as one approaches the town, while Caserta of to-day, built on 
level ground is, at first glance, an extremely modern place with 
streets far too clean and regular to be in keeping with this Old 
World Italy. Its chief and almost only interest for tourists 
lies in its Royal Palace and adjoining park, though Caserta is 
capital of its Province and boasts military station with officers 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 177 

said to be quite the most charming in all Italy. Statement I 
can well believe. 

The Palace is largest in all Italy — an immense rectangle. 
An imposing pile of architecture^ and considered by many famous 
architects to be the most perfect palace in all Europe to-day. 
But as its name^ casa erta, implies, it has desolate appearance 

— reminded F. of the old Escorial at Madrid which he declares 
the most gloomy, depressing building of the world, although 
that too has it^ redeeming feature in a handsome garden as has 
this palace of Caserta. 

We, however, did not find the Caserta Palace in the least de- 
pressing, since beside our own party with Conte V.'s officer 
friends, several other parties of officers in clanging scabbards 
and dashing uniforms were wandering through the great rooms 

— evidently quite as interested in us as in anything the palace 
held. F. says after our arrival every officer in Caserta who 
could leave his duties doubtless took to-day for making a 
promenade through the palazzo! Who would blame them.^ 
Since in spite of brave dash and captivating uniforms life at 
Caserta is dullness itself — greatest dissipation being the stroll 
to the station to watch the Express pass to or from Rome ! We 
met a number of them after lunch — several of whom speak 
English remarkably well. One knew Tenente B. very inti- 
mately — feels confident he will win the coming duel. 

And by the way I must tell you F. and I have begun fencing 
lessons with an old maestro here who has played — Santo Dio! 
who knows how many famous duels in his day. Fencing is an 
art in which many of these Neapolitan girls are wonderfully 
clever. All their brothers and cousins duel and they learn to 
cross foils with them as soon as they are home from the con- 
vents. My adorable A. fences with astonishing skill and is in 
great demand with all her many cousins. One hears of duels 

— duels between the nobili and duels between the army and 
navy officers — so frequently here that the famous Burr-Hamil- 
ton affair and even Judge Guild's thrilling account of Jackson's 
duel with Dickinson as given in his volume on Tennessee, seem 
altogether tame. These men have nearly all had one or more 
affaires dlionneur and duelling here you know, is nothing of 
the farce it is in other countries. 'Tis the only dignified settle- 



^ 



178 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

ment of a point of honor. Let a man hesitate or refuse to play 
and he is scorned by friends as well as foe and in the army or 
navy would be hounded out of the service, even though duelling 
is against the law. Another of the million mysteries of this 
adorable land! And one must admit that however uncivilized 
the duel may seem to us, it is far fairer method of settling a 
quarrel or insult than is many times employed in our own Amer- 
ica where men shoot on first sight. Or how little we Southerners 
think of the old feuds. Yet when I admit to an Italian that 
there are really these life-long feuds carried on geileration after 
generation, he denounces it is barbarous and 'is much shocked 
it is allowable in a land where even duels are prohibited and 
abolished. One soon learns to appreciate their views, and, real- 
izing more and more what tremendous part duels play in this 
Old World Italy, never thinks of them as foolish and never for 
a moment as being amusing. F., indeed, is very liberal toward 
this duelling code; declares that in a country where duels are 
permitted as method of vindicating honor and wrongs men are 
miuch more thoughtful of what they say and do concerning 
another's character and that homicides are far less frequent in 
lands where duelling is in vogue than in the United States. 
and F., you must admit, is generally correct. So you see we're 
each so much in sympathy with duelling that we bid fair to turn 
into clever fencers under our old maestro. F. already shows 
great skill and had a bout with Conte V. in the Caserta barracks 
this afternoon while mamma and I were gone with two of the 
officers to drive to Caserta Vecchia — where there is a dear old 
twelfth century Church and humble people to whom Naples seems 
so far away that for them to think of sometime going there 
would be wildest extravagance. Napoli! — mache! 

*Tis said some of these women of Old Caserta have still their 
special costumes and own peculiar ornaments for a festa. But 
agents from Naples have come more and more frequently during 
these past ten years buying these quaint costumes and exquisite 
ornaments from the picturesque peasant women, who won by 
lire, are willing to trust to their own dark beauty and St. 
Joseph to find them a husband without aid of wonderfully 
wrought jewelry and elaborate costumes for holy days. I 
bought a gay violet and lace apron — dear delight of every 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 179 

contadina — and was crazy for the orange corset which went 
with it. But mammina reminded me I have already one com- 
plete peasant costume and though an apron may be utilized in 
variety of ways, bold gay corsets are hardly so adaptable — it 
being alas ! not the fashion in our prosaic America to wear one's 
corset as a girdle. So I contented myself with a second apron, 
though had that corset been of black velvet I could never have 
left without it. But — che vuole? colors such as might make 
clever Madame Cheruit's heart throb with delight must be se- 
lected with care when one lacks the warm olive skin, dark eyes 
and blue-black hair of these people of the South. 

Yet you, with all your fondness for geology, would doubtless 
have found far more interest in the marbles of the Palazzo 
Reale rather than in gay, glad peasant costumes, for there is 
wonderful collection from Africa as well as from the different 
quarries of Italy. Indeed, it has been said that if one wishes 
to find all marbles of Italy collected under one roof they should 
visit this Caserta palace. The sumptuous portico has in all 
sixty-four columns of superb Sicilian marble and the teatro is 
adorned with Corinthian pillars of great beauty taken from an 
old ruin of Pozzuoli. Then there is the splendid marble stair- 
case with over a hundred steps, each a single block of perfec- 
tion. The Chapel and the Throne-room, too, are rich with their 
marble embellishments. Yet I fancy even for one fond of 
geology, the great, sunshiny, shadowy park with its fountains 
and nymphs would have greater attraction than the imposing old 
palace. We made our tea there on return from Old Caserta 
— surely a fit place for first using those two gala aprons ! The 
gardens are immense — mlagnificent cascade, attractive grotto, 
charming Swiss chatelet and wonderful green houses from which 
the old gardeners were only too pleased to pick and pick for us. 
Tourists seldom go out to Caserta. Yet so beautiful and entic- 
ing did we find the park that the Angelus was throbbing in 
remembrance of Gabriel's visit, before we had started back to 
Napoli — a drive as full of charm in the mysterious half light 
of coming night as under the lordly sun. And though the little 
brothers and sisters of Saint Francis had hushed their boisterous 
Gloria, dark-eyed peasant women walking home slowly from 
work in the fields, were not too tired to sing, ''Ave Maria — 
gratia plena! ** 



"Italy! Italy! thou who'rt doomed to wear 
The fatal gift of beauty/' . , 



— Longfellow 



-h 'h 



TO K. 

Napoli, January — 
T^ECCAVI! For on yesterday when your letters should have 
JL been written we drove out to Caserta for lunch at the mili- 
tary post and once back in Naples the day was so far gone, I 
sent only a postcard for your next Cherbourg mail. But you 
are a darling — will be first in the world to understand how 
this mysterious spell of this Old World Naples makes one quite 
irresponsible — lose all count of time, and forsake even their 
amid carissimi. 

And the card, by the way, may give you a faint idea of the 
gay glories of a flower-market on the Chiaia steps — a wonder- 
fully terraced garden of flowers of all rainbow hues, and hues 
of which no rainbow ever dared dream. Here now one buys 
for a lira, or even less if one cares to bargain, a great bunch 
of large Neapolitan violets — bouquet actually foot in diameter ! 
Twelve inches — e vero! Many of the women carry them j ust 
now while making the trottata — the great corsage bouquets 
making bold splashes in the sedate, somber line of corso each 
afternoon, though they who have lived here always amid this 
luxuriance think no more of the flowers than of their sunshine. 
But to us the flower-markets are one of the most picturesque 
sights and enticing spots of all Napoli. Imagine your great 
Saturday flower-market broken into sections and placed here and 
there in the attractive settings of these Neapolitan stair streets, 
mingling their odors with oranges and garlic, and their colors 
with the perfect picturesque of Neapolitan street life. No 
flower markets in the world — not even those of the splendid 
Spanish Stairs at Rome, can be so full of picturesque as these 
of this adorable old Napoli, tucked away in her sunshiny-shad- 

180 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 181 

owy gradoni along with glassy-eyed goats^ black-eyed bambini, 
mystery and secrets. 

There is one where we go most frequently — whether because 
the flowers be more lovely or whether we've fallen in love with 
the debonair merchant bearing the noble name of Rafaello — 
chi sa? Some mornings the market is gay, gorgeous mass of 
conglomerate color; or again a great bed of jonquils and tulips 
of the same Hesperian gold as the orange laden trees ; and again 
great sea of white narcissi like a tiny glimpse of that dear little 
Swiss Les Avants late in month of Mary. But Rafaello himself 
never changes. Sirocco itself can no more phase his debonair 
manners than can it pale his swarthy skin browned by twenty 
summers' Southern sun. He's an artist too — this Rafaello. 
Else how does it happen our bouquets for the daily corso are 
not to be equaled in all length and breadth of Napoli? He will 
combine most daring colors — deep violets backed with red roses, 
or jonquils with carnation pink! Truly delicious! Dear Ma- 
dame Cheruit would be wild with envy. 

But 'tis in Holy Week that RafaelWs artistic hand is in 
greatest demand, since it is he who has honor of decorating the 
Holy Sepulchres in some of the most prominent of Neapolitan 
Churches. For here in Italy, you know, on Holy Thursday each 
Roman Church has its representation of the Holy Sepulchre — 
just as they have the presepii at Feast of the Nativity — and 
each good Catholic visits his seven Sepulchres just as one visits 
the Blessed Sacrament in the Repository chapels in America. 
Here the Sepulchres with their figures of the Dead Christ are 
lavishly decorated. The odor of the flowers almost overpowers 
one. " Will the excellenz* be in Napoli for settimana santa? " 
Rafaello inquired this very morning. And we asked in reply, 
" Must not all buoni Cristiani go up to Rome for Holy Week.^ " 
Yet Rafaello answered quickly — " Sciisi! but the excellenz' 
would do well to stay — e vero! Our Napoli is more holy than 
Rome where forestieri and protestanti rush to view the spec- 
tacles. Gesii mio! would the excellenz* believe it? But true 
it is, there is not a corner left in which to say a prayer when all 
the forestieri are arrived in Rome for Pasqua! " He shook his 
head wisely. And who should know better than Rafaello who 
once sold flowers there in the Campo di Fioref 



182 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

The very thought of leaving this dear, dazzling, darling old 
Naples simply tears one's heart. For what has Rome to offer 
comparable with all the beauty, the picturesque and charm of 
this Napoli? Grazie a Dio there are yet almost two months 
before we and the world must rush to keep Easter in that dig- 
nified City of Rome. Two months yet for days of dolce 
far niente and prowling through mysterious thread-like 
streets full of extraordinary odors of flowers and all-pervading 
garlic, of secrets and dark-eyed smiling people; or basking in 
the true blue and genuine gold of this Old South where mystery 
and legends warm even more than hot southern sunshine and 
sight-seeing is far too prosaic a word to be breathed aloud. One 
is content simply to sit in solemn contemplation of all the en- 
chantments and romance of this divine shore of sibyls and 
sirens. 

Though truth to tell, one, after all, has little chance for solemn 
contemplation of mysteries. For there is the sea so wonder- 
fully, so heavenly blue, always calling one to skim over its 
sapphire. And there is the still louder call of sweet country 
roads with their gray olive orchards and peasant folk working in 
the fields. And there is the mysterious beckon at every turn 
of these tortuous by-ways of this semi-Oriental old city, where, 
tucked away from tourist, one finds warm-hearted winning people 
and in the shadows, hints of Camorra — all hidden under such 
wealth of perfect picturesque that call of the corso or of gay 
gatherings within these old palazzi walls have small charm by 
comparison. 

Yet even gay, glad gatherings are full of picturesque here. 
One must leave their carriage in the musty old palazzi courts 
and climb long flights of well-worn marble steps or crowd into 
a wobbly little lift which has no compunctions whatever about 
suspending you mid-way to your destination and adjusting itself 
only after the dancing has begun. And once arrived, no matter 
how small an affair, the rooms are ever brave with dashing uni- 
forms and clanging scabbards. So you see in forsaking the 
mystery of the streets for even a pure twentieth century tea, 
one, here in Napoli, by no means banishes all picturesque from 
the scene. 

And you will wonder no doubt how I enjoyed that dinner 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 183 

dance they gave for mfe at Casa C. last week. So I must con- 
fess right now to having had just then, an evil eye somehow cast 
on me ! Ill for three long days. It was malheur — n'est ce pas? 
I bought an amulet at once. For though a snow was immediate 
cause of my trouble, an evil eye must surely have been lurking 
just back of that, fixing its baneful glance on me without mercy. 
Me, who had dared scoff at its power ! I have learned to make 
horns now at every step. For what indeed but an evil eye — 
but cattivo! could have conjured a snow here in Napoli? No 
doubt you're much surprised. So we. Of course Vesuve and 
the solemn Apennines wear their crowns of snow for weeks at 
a time during the winter season — but snow in Napoli! on tliis 
sunny Riviera! Impossibilita! The poor people are so unpre- 
pared and have suffered terribly. Still everything remained as 
green as ever, flowers as many and as beautiful and orange 
trees as full of blossoms and fruit. It apparently did no more 
harm than warm Spring rain. All the gardens are now more 
beautiful than ever. Strange mystery ! since at home such 
weather as visited Naples last week would have blighted every- 
thing. But flowers grow here it seems simply for love of 
springing up under this sapphire sky. Though doubtless the 
tender, affectionate care these Neapolitan gardeners lavish on 
flowers and plants has its share in results along with sapphire 
sky and Southern sun. 

Madame and I were returning from tea at Bertolini's when 
it began snowing and though we had the carriage top up, it 
affected my throat and gave me a touch of the grippe as well — 
so cattivo the influence of that Evil Eye ! Though madame, true 
Frenchwoman ! doubts that jettatura played any part in my 
downfall and gleefully lays it all to my thin yokes and cobwebby 
stockings against which she has preached in vain. And I must 
tell you, much as I admire these Neapolitan girls, the astonish- 
ing manner in which they all bundle up their necks — collars 
under their ears and always heavily lined ! — makes me suf- 
focated at the sight. Mamma mia! But no doubt they often 
shiver at sight of me. Yet it must be confessed all these jeunes 
filles with necks so bundled and ankles so booted have had in- 
fluenza this winter much worse than my three days of grippe. 
There's an epidemic of influenza here in Naples just now — 



184 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 



1 



everyone having it from Her Royal Highness at Capodimonti 
to the forestieri who of course lay it at door of poor long-suf- 
fering Sirocco. 

Of course poor mammina was distressed to death, and unknown 
to me sent Maria off in post-haste for an old German doctor 
whom some friend once had here and recommended highly. 
Mammina has carried the address for good five years I'm sure, 
and no doubt it was joy to be able to use it at last. But, che 
vuole? I knew full well he would have me indoors for at least 
a week — torture in this adorable Napoli — and of course re- 
fused him admittance. All which he apparently considered quite 
natural in a jeune file americane — it being known to Tedesci 
that the jeune fille americane is a strange creature who never 
eats with her knife nor strides in center of the streets ! And 
after elaborate consultation with mammina and Maria he with- 
drew, leaving prescriptions for — mineral waters ! No doubt 
in the confusion of comprehending mammina's anxious English 
and French and Maria's voluble Tuscan, Herr Doctor believed 
Sirocco had given me touch of the fever. Anyway I found his 
waters not at all a mon gout and recovered very cleverly with- 
out his aid, though had I seen him, or rather he seen poor shiv- 
ering, aching me, I'd probably be languishing up at that sedate 
and very proper International Hospital this very moment — you 
and father on the way over and no end of excitement. 

And santo cielo! what torture thought of missing a day of 
this adorable Naples ! There's forever something new to see or 
do. One starts out in dolce-far-niente, scorning very thought of 
sight-seeing and guide books, but by time one is home there has 
been mysteriously accomplished a day of new sights — new 
aspects of this divine old city. 

For instance, this morning we went for a walk around the 
Via Tasso — beautiful, winding driveway which ascends the hill 
of Virgil's Posilipo. The day has been a dream of beauty and 
we wandered on and on, meeting but a few peasants and couple 
of the mounted carabinieri. We each take rapturous delight in 
strolling out on these country roads — just as within the old city 
Myalls we love to explore those mysterious lanes and tortuous 
gradoni in which it is whispered one meets Camorristi at every / 
turn. It's perfectly safe. The people are always full of cour- 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 185 

tesy and gracious to women. And then besides, there are those 
Royal Police, the Reali Carahinieri, who patrol all cities and 
roads of Italy day and night — always in pairs, either on foot 
or mounted. 

To this splendid carabineer corps, peace and order of the 
entire Italian kingdom is entrusted and they have done a great 
work toward repressing Camorra of Naples as well as lawless- 
ness throughout Italy. The body numbers about twenty-five 
thousand men, composed of soldiers who during their three years 
of obligatory service have not broken the least of military rules. 
As you may imagine they are an intelligent body and thoroughly 
reliable. 'Tis said they are known to the peasants as " guardian 
angels," and the King's guard too is always selected from among 
the Carahinieri, They wear a three-cornered hat caught up in 
front with red plume. This, with their black uniform and 
scarlet facings makes picturesque costume — indeed no field mar- 
shal is more splendid. 

Then there is another attractive body of soldiers here — the 
Bersaglieri sharpshooters. They are always small, lithe men, 
who march on the double-quick and wear captivating black hats 
with immense bunch of brave green cock feathers fastened on 
one side whose weight draws the hat jauntily over one ear with 
dashing effect. I went quite wild over these Bersaglieri 
chapeauoc the first day in Naples and was immensely pleased to 
have Mr; T. give me one not long ago. I wore it out to Caserta 
yesterday to unbounded astonishment of the peasants to whom 
sight of signorina in a cock-feathered Bersaglieri hat was evi- 
dently more amazing than had she worn head dress of Medusa. 
I think I must save it for horseback riding this summer at home — 
it's quite the thing, though perhaps consternation in the Berk- 
shires would be little less than among these Campanian peas- 
ants. 

And by the :way, horseback riding is splendid here — the 
roads enchanting whichever direction one takes. This Via Tasso 
and the Posilipo roads are special favorites, with fascinating 
little ristoranti here and there where one may have a pot of 
coffee with rolls and honey as delicious as that honey of near- 
by Mons Matinus of whose bees and honey Horace sung. Or 
later in the day, a lordly flask of Chianti and a salad, with 



186 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 



1 



always a marvelous view thrown in. Mamma, F. and I_, with 
some one of our Neapolitan friends ride frequently in the 
mornings — out in the bold dashing sunshine, which warms one 
more bravely than all steam heat in the land. 

We had just reached the Posilipo crest this morning and 
prepared to sketch when Marchese T. appeared a cheval. He 
often rides with us — has the finest mounts in Naples, barring 
perhaps the King's cousin at Capodimonti, and like Marcus 
Aurelius his horsemanship is beyond all human praise. Like 
we, he had nothing to do but idle the morning away. (Of 
course though, you understand that's not at all the truth. He 
had a lecture at the University and I was due at the noble 
school. But to admit there is anything so prosaic as professors 
and lectures in this adorable Napoli is not to be thought of!) 
So he found us a cab and we drove and drove over the roads 
of that divine Posilipo Master Virgil loved so well, until a 
debonair young peasant eating his dark bread by the wayside 
and calling a gay, '' Bon appetito! " reminded us of mid-day 
breakfast. So we went back to that little ristorante of The 
Promised Lovers where one finds such delightful delicacies 
(snails fed on milk and roasted after a recipe of that sapient 
Pliny the Younger ! — if it please you) and gazes out on such 
dazzling views of Naples that even humblest of food would be 
made divine. Indeed 'tis up there on the Posilipo hill that 
one always understands quite well why the great masters of 
Italy never attempted to reproduce their own scenery but chose 
rather the Saints and Madonna. 

There was a dear saint at lunch there at the Promised Lovers 
this morning — a priest with good eyes and far-away spiritual 
expression which took no account whatever of our worldly in- 
trusion. He was altogether in keeping with I Promessi Sposi. 
A Fra Cristoforo, Marchese T. and I thought. But mammina 
insisted that this priest across the room from us, could never, 
never have committed murder and was certainly none other than 
Cardinal Borromeo — Cardinal Borromeo, for the moment 
without his ring, having forgotten it no doubt in thinking of 
poor Lucia and Renzo and of how he must upbraid that cow- 
ardly Don Abbondio. And had one looked to see, no doubt 
Perpetua herself was bustling around out in the kitchens pre- 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 187 

paring our salad. For where indeed should the ghost of that 
faithful Perpetua he, if not here at I Promessi Sposi in this old 
Naples^ where even in mid-day one sees phantoms and ghosts 
of the Past at every turn. You see the Promised Lovers with 
its phantoms of Manzoni was altogether charming this morning. 

Here one sits high above Naples^ swarming and quivering with 
its mad_, gay life and understands not only why old masters 
did not attempt their own Italian scenery, but a multitude of 
other things. Why the far-away Apennines are so solemn, 
and why the sea is purple with mysteries. Why Castello dell* 
Ovo can never be taken but by necromancy and aid of the devil. 
Why vessels on way into this port of Parthenope do not run 
slowly, as in other ports, but glide more swiftly as they hear 
the siren's call. Why at far end of this Posilipo crest the great 
San Martino sits forever brooding on vandalism of the State 
which has left her desecrated and forsaken except of tourist. 
And one wonders, will the debonair Young Italy ever be able 
to tear out these mysteries and ghosts of Old Italy from 
Naples — as it has torn the white-robed Carthusian fathers from 
the Certosa. I, for one, think not. Italia Giovine can no more 
wipe these mysteries from out this ruddy, sun-scorched old city 
of the siren than she can change the blue of Neapolitan sky. 

We came home by way of Vomero and San Martino, thread- 
ing our way down into the swarming old quarters, through the 
net work of labyrinthine streets and by-ways until we reached 
some old arcades of which Marchese T., who is wild over arch- 
aeology, had been telling us while at lunch. These, nothing 
less than the arcades and a few desolate remains of the theater 
in which the Emperor Nero sang and performed when he 
j ourneyed through Italy and Greece to display the talents ! 
he himself thought so wonderful. Practically all material of 
this once magnificent old theater was taken for use in building 
a near-by church, but in a garden just off the street there are 
some of the old marble steps yet to be seen. And with even 
these few relics of ancient glory one does not find it difficult 
to picture the vain Nero, clad in blue tunic and golden wings 
of Mercury in his hair, singing with pompous air and strident 
voice before the music-mad Neapolitans who, instead of unspar- 
ing their hisses, joined in with the mercenary admirers with 



188 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

thunders of applause and wild enthusiasm^ giving themselves 
up to the very delirium of appreciation of monstrous night- 
mare. Far better that, than incur wrath of the great Caesar. 

The University is not far from these old Theater ruins and 
Marchese T. begged to show us through this afternoon, as he 
is a student there. And by the way you would be surprised, I 
think, at the great number of these young Neapolitan nobili 
who are going in for law or physician's degree or engineering 
course. Forestieri have an idea that those of the nobili who 
are not in the army or navy, diplomatic corps or Holy Orders, 
do little but decorate street corners and grace the afternoon 
teas, but really it's a false impression. Among the six thousand 
and more students of the University these same gay insouciant 
nobili are carrjang off honors each year. There are over one 
hundred professors of whom we met several. One, we thought 
might well be Cino himself — Dante's '^ amicus carissimus ** 
who, an exile like the divine Dante, wandered through Italy, 
sometimes lecturing in this old University of Naples. For this 
University of Naples dates back to 1224, founded by Emperor 
Frederick II — first University to be established under Royal 
Charter. Mamma was happy to find a fine bust of her adorable 
Leopardi in the court — his sad, dark eyes apparently full of 
wonder as to why he should be placed near St. Thomas Aquinas 
and others so much greater than he. Giordano Bruno, — - the 
mad skeptic, is there too, — his statue added within the last half 
century, and seems not in the least abashed to stand near that 
Angelic St. Thomas whose teachings he dared dispute. 'Tis 
really an immense old place — this University. Yet I thought 
the Observatory most interesting of all. It is splendidly 
equipped and from here students note phenomena of Vesuvius 
all days of the year. 

We hope to make ascent of Vesuve sometime soon, but you 
know the eruption of last year destroyed the Wire Rope Rail- 
road which Cook had built to within short distance of the crater, 
so now the excursion is not so easily made, And with its 
winter crown of snow, Vesuve just now insolently defies all 
tourists and the poor Vesuvian guides are lords of the moun- 
tain. Though really the snow is of untold value for them as 
well as present annoyance^ since they sprinkle patches of it 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 189 

with the Vesuvian lava dust and in the scorching days of sum- 
mer when purple heat makes Vesuve almost unbearable^ they 
can turn to find the snow still unmelted^ lava being most won- 
derful of all heat non-conductors. Indeed just beneath surface 
of the lava beds one may light their cigarettes and then per- 
haps, boring down a foot or so where the lava stream has poured 
out upon a wintei^ snow, one may chill a bottle of wine to per- 
fection — the snow being there unmelted. 

One frequently meets those who witnessed the last great 
eruption of 1906. We had most interesting talk with a girl a 
few days ago, who herself had narrow escape. She is a Swiss 
who has a little shop in the Galleria filled with beautiful em- 
broideries to tempt forestieri and mamma had her come up here 
one night to talk over ordering some embroideries from Geneva. 
She mentioned having had last year just such patterns as we 
wanted, but said they were quite ruined by the ashes and dust 
which hung over the city for days, wrapping this gay, smiling 
old Naples in darkness. 

She told of going up on Vesuvius with some tourists from 
her town just after the volcano had had its first slight eruptions. 
Forestieri were all improving their opportunity to see what they 
could of the marvelous old mountain. No one thought of serious 
danger, as it often became active and then sank again into its 
sleeping lethargy. This girl and her friends had gone up one 
night — a popular time when the mountain " works " and 
especially in summer to watch the sunrise. They had gone as 
far as the guides thought safe when suddenly the monster shot 
forth molten lava and rapilli with force far greater than had 
been witnessed in years. The guides, though well acquainted 
with all angry moods of the satanic old mountain, were them- 
selves terrified, and tourists of course simply faint with horror. 
A stream of the red hot lava flowed out from the crater, gliding 
down the mountain side like some fiery serpent, though fortu- 
nately not in their path. But there was not a moment to be 
lost if they were to escape. I can not write so that you can 
possibly appreciate the terror of that night as we realized from 
her story. A guide picked this girl up in his arms and ran 
with her down the mountain side as none but those Vesuvian 
guides accustomed to years of service on these steep slopes and 



190 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

lava beds are able to run with safety. Coming to a little hut 
part way down the mountain side^ he dropped her, dashed inside 
and dragged out the sleeping wives and children of some of 
the guides living there. The girl herself carried a naked child 
in her arms as they ran on and on to a place free from imme- 
diate danger. The impending calamity — the flying people — 
the lurid sky — the ashes and rocks which fell about them were 
depicted in this girl's picturesque broken English with vivid- 
ness which made us shudder. You remember of course, we 
read of this disturbance, but I'm sure none of us in America 
realized how terrifying it must have been. For days Naples 
was covered with heavy black smoke and ashes through which 
even this bold, all-penetrating sun could not shine. Nearly 
everything in the shops was ruined. Dust and particles of 
ashes fell as far north as Paris. Yet Neapolitans tell us 
they felt little or no alarm for themselves. Vesuve has never 
yet dared molest the divine siren's city. And then, besides, is 
there not their holy protector San Gennaro ever ready to arrest 
streams of lava and bring peace to a terrified people? 

But many of the tourists in Naples at that time were quite 
frantic — paid fabulous prices to be driven out of the city. 
Some cabmen, it is said, made their fortunes, as the railroad to 
Rome was unable to accommodate the great crowds of Spring 
tourists fleeing the city — preferring to trust in distance rather 
than in San Gennaro. 

The crown of fire over the crater at night is often seen — 
source of much excitement to forestieri lately arrived in Naples, 
though the fire is not flame at all but simply reflection of the 
seething molten lava of the crater thrown on the clouds of 
smoke and ashes constantly arising. And sometimes one 
notices their dark coats are slightly sprinkled with a fine dust 
of the Vesuvian ash and is so sure the wicked old monster is 
to be especially active that they will sit out on a balcony half 
the night, glass in hand, waiting for some splendid eruption. 
At least F. and I did until we found we were always being 
tricked by the satanic creature who delights seemingly in taking 
the world to-day unaware, just as with a few premonitory roars, 
he surprised that gay glad Pompeii in 79. 

F. says there is an Italian philosopher who has lately sug- 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-XOTHING 191 

gested Vesuvius be tunneled! so that at time of disturbance the 
lava will run out through set channel at base of the mountain 
rather than pour up over the top to destruction of all in its 
path. This philosopher really has a thrifty New England 
spirit since he proposes the lava which runs out at the base in 
this prosaic fashion, shall be used for paving blocks. Santo 
cielo! very thought of daring to take such liberty with the 
majestic old mountain makes one shiver. Yet it all sounds 
feasible enough and perhaps when we are come again to Napoli, 
Vesuve will indeed be tunneled and in dignified furnace fashion, 
calmly running out a molten mass for paving these Neapolitan 
streets ! Chi sa? 



Something at every step that has some beauty or som^ 
charm in it, some graciousness of the ancient time or some 
poetry of the present hour." 

— " OuiDA " 



* -h 



TO G. 

Naples^ February — 

FCAME this morning with his nUachine and took us to 
• Capodimonte — our first visit to the Royal Palace 
there. Duca G. was coming out his palazzo as we passed so 
we invited him to join the party. There is really nothing more 
satisfactory than having a Neapolitan with one when sight- 
seeing here — one sees things from an entirely different point 
de vue. 

The drive there by way of the Corso was heavenly this per- 
fect February morning. Naples, climbing up from the dancing 
water of the bay, lay laughing at our feet with that inscrutable 
smile of Mona Lisa and we made the run back and forth the 
long stretch of Corso — about three miles in length — several 
times before turning to Capodimonte. Before reaching en- 
trance to the grounds, we had glimpses of the splendid Royal 
Park, reminding us all of lovely green English parks. The 
gorgeously liveried portiers at the gate doubtless thought we 
were calling on the Duca and Duchessa d'Aosta, since they did 
not require our permesso as of other tourists arriving along with 
us. I fancy the rigid old major-domi in their gold lace and 
scarlet never dreamed people in a Renault car could be mere 
tourists. 

The Palazzo Reale is a handsome old building designed by 

Medrano, architect of San Carlos. Many rooms of the royal 

Museo are turned into a picture Gallery with extensive collection, 

growing richer every year, as the Italian Royal House makes 

annual purchases at all the best Fine Art Exhibitions in Italy. 

Then, too, there is magnificent collection of the famous Capo- 

192 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 193 

dimonte porcelain — many rare exquisite pieces with which 
mamma was all taken. F. was much interested in the splendid 
models of Italian men-of-war, developing bellicose disposition 
for a man sent by his country as representative to the Peace 
Congress ! Duca G., too, was of rather pugnacious mind this 
morning and lingered over the wonderful array of weapons 
until we were in terror lest there was another duel in the air. 
But both he and F. soon lost their war-like spirits once we had 
coaxed them out into the park. 

The royal park "with its handsome gardens and beautiful 
hosco, is perfectly charming. There is one especially elegant 
avenue formed by allowing the stately old trees to grow so 
their branches meet, forming a long tunneled driveway, and 
many lesser but quite as charming lanes and paths leading 
through the umbrageous hosco. We spent some time saunter- 
ing over the park, discovering no end of lovers' lanes and 
trysting places. Here in the park was a beautiful collection 
of birds which F. and I admired immensely and thought finer 
than collection of the Cincinnati Zoo, causing Duca G. laugh- 
ingly to comment on our graciousness, since he declared we 
Americans seldom make comparisons detrimental to our own 
country, and he was quite overjoyed to hear the Italian Royal 
House o^vned some birds not tout de suite avowed inferior to 
some collection we had at home ! 

And really there is a great deal of truth in his jest. Most 
Americans who come here are so chary of praise and continually 
declaring we have something at home to surpass tliis and that. 
I sweetly explained to Duca G. it is only their envy of this 
bellissima Italia which makes them so critically garrulous and 
even gives some boldness to say we can rival this matchless 
Bay of Napoli — absurdity which every American who has seen 
Naples knows to be an utter impossibility. Indeed the only 
two things these perverse tourists mil admit America is not 
able to rival or surpass, are the quantity of the Neapolitan beg- 
gars and the qualities of the rascally cabmen! For strange 
as it may seem to residents of Naples, beggars and cabmen are 
each a bete noire to many a tourist. They will walk rather 
than trust their precious liyes in the hands of one of these per- 
fectly safe and picturesque cabmen; and stay in their pensione 



194 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

rather than walk and be accosted by the beggars who are quite 
as safe and picturesque as the cabmen. No wonder tourists 
hurry off to Rome and have so little love for this City of the 
Siren ! 

Coming home we noticed the large reservoir of the water- 
works — reminder that we have always forgotten to answer your 
question as to what kind of water we find here. Acqua 
di Serino — icy cold and pure. Indeed^ it is said the German 
Emperor always insists on having this Serino water on his table 
and it has reputation throughout Europe as being one of the 
finest in the world. Fact, well appreciated by the nobility and 
in private homes_, consummation of wines is much less than one 
might suppose for Latin country. An intoxicated man is never 
seen in any class. 

'Tis most amiusing to see the tourists who, having heard the 
water of Naples was poor some twenty or thirty years ago, 
seem to think of course such must be case now and while here 
never drink anything but wines and bottled waters. And F. 
says these very same people when they reach Rome, are always 
equally afraid of the excellent waters there which have been 
pouring into that city through the wonderful old aqueducts century 
after century, and will be served with the bottled Serino water 
— little thinking it the same they refused in Naples ! But, 
" Flout not this song, O ye Muses, rustic and rougish of dimple ! " 

Yet the Neapolitans of the lower class do not find the pure 
Serino water as refreshing as one might imagine and, poor 
though the people are, the stalls of the vendors in lemonade do 
thriving business. We have noticed these attractive little 
booths all winter and now as spring approaches they are more 
numerous and springing up overnight on this corner and that. 
A variety of drinks may be had at soldo and less a glass. 
Lemonade or orangeade is freshly made for each customer even 
by the most humble vendor in Naples. 'Tis most amusing to 
watch the operation and the many gestures necessary before 
the nectar is set forth with final flourish. Stalls are all artis- 
tically decorated with green boughs of the lemon trees and bold 
festoons of fruit; this, with pyramid of the yellow nestling 
among its own leaves on the diminutive counter, all goes to 
make a picturesque frame for animated olive face of the vendor 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 195 

who sets forth before cabmen and ragazzi drink for the gods — 
so, at least, they say! 

Here at these same stalls in summer are sold the great 
luscious watermelons of Naples. Not a whole melon to one 
person to be sure; but for an infinitesimal small coin a goodly 
slice, sufficient for food, a drink, and face wash — with the 
rind ! They say at this season we can form no idea of the 
glorious Naples of the summer with her thousands of little gay 
awning-protected stalls selling all sorts of luscious fruits *and 
flowers and drinks, making splashes of color to make an artist 
throb with joy. 

Apropos of drinks — the goats are driven through the streets 
here twice a day just as we saw them in Cuba. The cows also, 
though they are not required to mount the stairways as are the 
goats — a pail being lowered from even third and fourth story 
balconies and deftly drawn up again without spilling a drop. 
But the goats take to the tortuous little stair-streets and to 
these dark stairways in the old 'palazzi with great agility. I 
came face to face with one on a fourth floor the other day and 
had to retreat to the landing that the impudent little creature 
might have right of way. They often take up the entire side- 
walk so that pedestrians are crowded off into the street — ma 
non fa niente! There is infinite picturesque in it all. 

Yet not always such infinite picturesque either, madame would 
doubtless say. For only a few weeks ago, in taking a short cut 
down a little stair-street with her one evening after dark when 
the only near-by light was from Madonna's shrine, madame 
stepped square on a goat who lay stretched out in middle of 
the street. Such commotion ! Glassy, yellow eyes began blink- 
ing at us from all sides. There was a large herd quartered for 
the night in the street and calmly reposing — until the rude 
awakening by nuadame and myself. Of course the noise and 
confusion which ensued brought out their herder, his family 
and countless neighbors, awakening hens and turkeys, which 
were quartered in the houses for the night as well as a cow — 
causing pandemonium in general! It was not late but bitterly 
cold for Naples and the whole neighborhood had retired. We 
ourselves apologized graciously, yet the old herder was vocifer- 
ously berated by his wife for allowing the goats to obstruct 



196 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

path of the illustrious ladies. He, in turn, berated the poor 
goats, calling maledictions of heaven do^vn upon their stupidity. 
In the meantime a young fellow, looking every inch a debonair 
bandit or member of Camorra, vi^as delegated to escort us to the 
main street, which he did with air of courtier though we breathed 
in relief once we were out of the tortuous little lanes and almost 
at the hotel entrance — not because we were really afraid, but 
madame was quite unnerved, so suddenly had the dozen or more 
pair of glassy yellow eyes begun blinking at us in the dark, 
silent little street. 

That same evening I was writing at a desk in one of the 
salons downstairs and heard a party of Americans excitedly tell- 
ing of how some woman had, in daylight, her ear-rings torn 
from her ears in one of these same Neapolitan streets, how 
another woman had had her shopping bag snatched, and divers 
other tragedies. I wanted to tell them of the dark little lane 
through which madame and I had come only a few hours earlier. 
But they were tourists, full of plans for rushing here and 
there. To them it v/ould have mattered nothing to know that 
there was one small picturesque stair-street in which two women 
had been alone after dark and found safe and full of courteous, 
gracious people — as well as glassy eyed goats ! To them the 
(Museum, Aquarium and Pompeii, photographs, gloves and coral 
were so all absorbing there was no time for the people of this 
sun-scorched Campanian coast — people little understood and 
little loved but who, in spite lives full of labor and full of sor- 
row, are millionaires in hundred ways we may never know. 

No doubt the old Italian proverb, " the prudent traveler never 
disparages his own country," applies to one's countrymen as 
well and lest you believe majority of Americans must seem 
veritable boors in this smiling land, I hasten to tell you they 
are really no worse nor as ridiculous as many of these English 
and Germans. Yet all Europe expects more of Americans and 
these Italians themselves will notice each American whereas 
twenty mad Englishmen and fifty ruddy Tedeschi might rush 
through Naples unseen. 

And all the British who ever invest in a Cook's circular tour 
and all the Germans who ever make a wander jahr seemed con- 
gregated just now in this dolce far niente Napoli. The great 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 197 

Museum fairly swarmed with them this afternoon. For meet- 
ing IVTr. T. just going in as we came from Capodimonte we took 
advantage of his invitation to go into the now closed-to-the- 
public Pinacoteca to see that glorious Titian's portrait of Paul 
III. Mr. T. is quite sure he can detect glint of humor in the 
famous old Pope's eyes and humorous he must have been if one 
may judge from; his reply to the chamberlain who complained 
to him that Michelangelo^ in the " Last Judgment " of the Sistine, 
had portrayed him in Inferno. " Had it been in Purgatory I 
might have assisted you^, but in Hell there is no redemption ! " 
was the quick reply. 

II Santo? you ask. One 'hears both book and Fogazzaro dis- 
cussed_, but not very often, and though censors of the Index by 
their condemnation may have brought it before thousands who 
would otherwise never have heard of it_, few of these Neapoli- 
tans seemed to find it great temptation. It was told however 
at a dinner a few nights ago at Casa C. by a friend of Foggaz- 
zarOj that he himself regretted sorely having written the book 
and 'tis believed it will not be many months before retraction 
will be bravely rnlade. 

Yet one can not but admire the man who as he says of himself, 
stands, " warrior at his post." Dion A.'s j'^ounger brother was 
showing me his autograph album the other day — he has many 
famous contributors, the King and both Italian Queens. But 
one which interested me more than these was signed simply. 
Padre Serafino — a priest who has tutored or been chaplain in 
the family. And above his signature those lines of Foggaz- 
zaro — 

" Pensa a Iddio, i^ideal, prega, lavora; 

Sii grand e e puro/* 
" Meditate on God and the ideal, pray and work; 

Be noble and pure." 



" I was not born in Italy — yet when Love called me into 
that Eden of enchanting secrets, I found the land for which my 
soul had yearned/* 

— M. P. 



* * 



TOM. 



Napoliy February — 

£CCOMI! F. and Mr. T. left on the morning express for 
Rome so I, quite alone and nothing better than to scribble 
you of this and that concerning this sweet world of Italian sun- 
shine and million flowers. 

Mamma and I had intended running up to Rome with them 
for the week end — I hear you murmur softly, "Che diavolo! 
would that she had, and I might hear of something other than 
Naples ! Naples ! " But mamma changed her mind late last 
night to F.'s disappointment, yet you know the old Italian 
proverb — " Cuore di donna, onde di mare, sole di Marzo, non 
ti fidare.'* (Trust not in a woman's heart, the waves of the sea, 
nor the March sun). 

I, too, cared little about going, though it must seem queer to 
you we should be here only hundred and fifty miles away and 
still in no haste whatever to see that wonderful City of the 
Caesars whose history has such charm for you. Ah hien! you 
have never seen this Napoli of blue sky and laughing people 
and know naught of this Siren of Parthenope who has flung her 
spell over us — causing days to fleet away as a dream. But 'tis 
said, you know, that dreams here in Italy, can never be for- 
gotten. 

Madame took me to a quite lovely wedding this morning — 
one of her favorite pupils, a beautiful Italian girl whom she 
has taught and chaperoned for several years. It was a very 
aristocratic aff'air, the family very prominent, and the girl has 
really and truly seventeen diff'erent titles ! — titles are like the 
flow^ers of Italy you know and spring up by the wayside. 
Madame went to the house early to carry flowers and give a 

198 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 199 

last fond embrace and then later we drove to the private Chapel 
where the Nuptial Mass was celebrated. But interest centered 
not so much on the ceremony or bride and groom as on couple who 
made the " match." All marriages over here are made by rela- 
tives or friends^ and simply to fall in love would be exceeding 
bad taste ! These two who had arranged this affair were 
cynosure of all and greatly discussed^ as the marriage has caused 
much opposition from the bride's relatives^ she being an only 
child and heiress while the groom, a dashing young lieutenant, 
is quite penniless. " It is a beautiful love match a Vameri- 
cane/* madame has repeatedly declared. 

Don A. (of the M. family) was at the wedding breakfast 
and asked to show me some things in his gallery — they have 
a magnificent private gallery in their palace here and like 
Lorenzo, his great ancestor, Don A. loves everything beautiful. 
He came this afternoon and took mamma and me down, and we 
spent a charming hour viewing the lovely things. His latest 
acquisition is a darling little Cupid which has been unearthed 
on one of their farms near here. It seemed to me almost 
replica of that little chained Cupid accompanying the Faun in 
the Museum at Pittsfield. I told Don A. of it and that I 
thought that, too, was found somewhere around Naples. He was 
much interested and if you don't remember where it came from, 
do please motor up to Pittsfield when next at Lenox and find 
out all you can. 

We went to Galleria Viitoria for tea, H. R. H. Duchessa 
d'Aosta being there to-day, — at the wedding this morning also. 
I think her wonderfully attractive, and 'tis said she is far more 
queenly than Queen Elena and always signs herself, H. R. H. 
Helene de France. 

As we came out from tea, the orchestra below was in midst 
of that beautiful " Madama Butterfly /' and we stopped on the 
balcony overhanging the winter garden. Two Englishmen 
stood next us, rather more intent on watching the people than 
hearing the music. Suddenly one of them indicated an elderly 

man hurrying out of Cook's and remarked, " There's Mr. " 

— I didn't catch the name — " he came down froln Nice on my 
steamer — on his way to Florence to finish his new biography 
on the Medici." 



200 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

" What's he want to write on the Medici for ? " his companion 
next to me growled. " They're all dead as mummies in the 
Museum — he's clever enough to give us something new ! " 

We heard each word and Don A. understands English quite 
as well as Italian. " Some Medici are not as dead as Monsieur 
might imagine ! " he remarked laughing, as they walked away. 

You may tell M. that I've met my first Italian Deputy, 
Signore V., this afternoon, though the occasion had none of the 
romance which flavored her rencontre with the debonair Deputy 
on the chemin de fer last summer. Don A. had heard I was 
anxious to meet a real Italian Deputy and seeing Signor V. 
alone in the tea-room, asked to present him. He proved a very 
up-to-date, clever man — quite unlike the amusing Italian Depu- 
ties from small provinces, who, as the story runs, went to the 
large Exposition at Milan a few years ago, and in obedience 
to the strict regulation that everyone should wear tall silk hats, 
bought them for their poor wives as well ! Signor V. was much 
amused when I repeated the story but begged me to believe he 
was not one of the guilty party, since he has not yet had a wife. 
Yet he thought there were several of his colleagues to whom 
the story might well apply. 

Yesterday we went en automobile to Duca G.'s country place 
beyond Caserta. He has been there for several days attending 
to affairs, and since yesterday was superb day for motoring but 
we didn't have time to arrange for a picnic, we decided to beg 
breakfast from him. 

We reached there just as he and his mother were sitting 
down, yet in some miraculous manner the meal was quickly 
stretched into sufficient and more for seven plates in lieu of 
two, — there were five in our party, F. and Mr. T., Marquis T. 
and ourselves. We were tremendously hungry after the ride 
and ate ravenously of the ever-delicious maccaroni con for- 
ma ggio. 

The men had great sport in trying to teach me to manage it 
in true Neapolitan manner. I persist in cutting it — it seems 
hopeless any other way! Yet these Italians can take it to the 
mouth after the manner of the street urchins you've seen in 
pictures and carry off the trick with no end of grace. A few 
deft twists of the long unbroken macaroni or spaghetti on the 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 201 

fork, a slight throwing back of the head, a gleam of teeth and 
presto ! trick is accomplished. 

They had the most delicious pork chops too — I've never 
tasted better in New England. Duca G. declared in all seri- 
ousness it because his pigs were all sent into the village to be 
blessed on St. Anthony's day — January 17th. But I'm inclined 
to believe the olive oil with which these artist cooks dress their 
meat to such nicety, has great deal to do with the flavor, though 
doubtless Saint Anthony did hi's part also. 

Can you imagine what a Sixtus V salad would be ? — but of 
course you can't ! After breakfast I went with the Duchess, 
Duca G.'s mother, to take a woolen shirt and some eggs to an 
old peasant who has been ill. She remarked as she packed the 
eggs in the basket among the folds of the shirt, that one of 
Sixtus V's salads would undoubtedly please the poverello far 
more than eggs or shirt. Seeing that I did not in the least 
understand, she explained, first sending one of the servants 
after some insalata. Lettuce is all called salad here, you know. 
It seems that when Sixtus V was Pope, a poor lawyer who had 
been his friend when the Pope was but an unknown monk, 
started to Rome to ask help from his old friend. But before 
reaching Rome he fell ill at a wayside inn and unable to con- 
tinue his journey, asked the doctor to send the Pope word. 
Yet when Sixtus V heard of his old friend's plight, he merely 
said, " I will send him a salad," and dispatched a basket of let- 
tuces. But when the lettuces were opened, there proved to be 
money concealed in their hearts ! and from this the Italians 
have a saying when a man is in need of money, " He wants one 
of Sixtus V salads." And as she explained what a Sixtus V 
salad really was, she carefully incited a knife into heart of each 
lettuce head and opening the large quaint silver chatelaine bag 
hanging from her belt, inserted a lira into each heart. It struck 
me as wonderfully clever and I begged to insert into one a small 
gold piece which I had in my purse. She thought it too much, 
but Duca G. came in and took my part — the poverello would 
think it came from heaven and I must carry the salad and play 
role of angel. Which I did in spite fact all angels are sup- 
posed to be masculine and I'm sure the old peasant must have 
thought me angela truly wonderful, as he was basking in the 



202 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

gold sunshine in the doorway and saw me dash up driving F.'s 
car. An aeroplane would perhaps be in better taste for an 
angel ! 

F. only lets me drive his big Renault out on the country roads. 
I don't think him half as afraid of my not being able to manage 
the car in the narrow, crowded streets of the city as of the 
sensation it would cause. An Italian girl or woman would as 
soon think of chasing the moon as running a car and F. says I 
would be arrested in a moment — not for speeding but for 
sheer madness ! The chaff euse of Paris has not yet invaded this 
Napoli. Grazie a Dio. 

There was the cunningest little black-eyed baby in the family 
where we took the Sixtus V salad — I asked her name. 
" America ! " the mother exclaimed proudly. And when I had 
commented graciously on honor to our country, the beauty of the 
name, et cetera, and demanded what other names the child had 
— expecting of course to hear the usual long chain of Mariuc- 
cia Franceshina and so on, the mother quickly answered, " But 
signorina, America is so big, the bambinina needs only the one! " 
The Duchess translated her voluble patois and said the woman's 
husband had gone to America shortly before the child was born 
and much to the parish priest's dismay, it was brought to be 
christened, provided with but single name — and that not of a 
saint! Yet despite his remonstrance the mother had firmly 
insisted on America, declaring the name stood for such a big 
country that the one was quite sufficient! So America the baby 
was strangely christened — probably only child in all Italy, the 
Duchess said, having but a single name ! I think our Congress 
ought to vote purse to the child — don't you ? 

The duchess' mother was English and she herself has a true 
Englishwoman's love of walking, so she had F. take the car 
back, that after leaving our shirt and Sixtus V salad, we might 
come home a pied. These Italian roads have a charm irresist- 
ible! One seems to feel a sweetness and a peace brooding over 
the land here such as one never knows on roads in other lands. 
Or, after all, have they no greater charm than other roads, and 
is it only because Italy has cast the witchery of her spell over 
me that makes me to so love her? 

Leaving the road we came through the old olive orchards, 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHIXG 203 

gray and glistening in the sunshine. Peasants were at work 
here and there^ chanting the old rispetti (love songs) in the 
warm melodious tones which belong to these smiling^ brown-eyed 
people of the South. A faded red skirt or an orange kerchief 
on a woman here and there, gave warm touch, for although yes- 
terday was almost Spring the old olives rustling in the lazy 
Sirocco, still whispered of Winter and Death. Later the gran 
turco, as the corn is called, and brilliant red poppies will grow 
at feet of these majestic old trees. But as yet Persephone has 
not been restored to the waiting world and the olives stand 
alone, old and gray, with no color except the matchless blue 
of the sky above. But no — I forget the many green lizards 
which played hide and seek over the trees or basked in secret 
confabulation as to whether Persephone would be released early 
this year from her underground prison, or would Pluto hold her 
late. 

Great silver gray oxen — oxen such as Homer describes in 
his Odyssey were drawing stone for a new wall. Their large 
glorious eyes are the most appealing and solemnly beautiful eyes 
on earth, and the duchess says that while many of the peasants 
would be harsh, almost cruel, to a horse, yet one of these noble 
oxen seems to inspire a sort of confidence and simpatia. A 
translation from Carducci, that sweet Italian poet, runs, 

" I love thee, pious Ox ; a gentle feeling 
Of vigor and of peace thou giv'st my heart. 
How solemn, like a monument, thou art ! '* 

and goes on to speak of the " patient eyes appealing." Duca 
G. is very proud of his oxen and each has its own name, though 
they, so Old World and Virgilian, seem very foreign to the great 
racing car Duca G. finds inseparable in Naples. 

He takes great interest in his farms — is quite unlike the 
titled Neapolitan, adorning street corners and tea-rooms, as 
Americans generally imagine ! The peasants adore him and 
though he is almost six feet, if not quite, they affectionately 
refer to him as " the little signor/' 

" Why do you call him * the little signor ' ? '* 1 asked an olive- 
skinned old peasant, endeavoring as I spoke to give Neapolitan 



204 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

intonation to my Tuscan Italian, for this Neapolitan is far more 
like the Spanish than pure Italian of Tuscany. 

"Holy Virgin!" he exclaimed dramatically, "does the 
s'lgnorina from America not know our signore was once a bam- 
bino! '* 

I apologized graciously, — quite delighted to find I could 
make myself understood and so readily imderstand this queer 
patois spoken here among the peasants. 

I noticed that he wore the odd Italian sandal, — simple oblong 
piece of heai^y leather with perforated sides and ends through 
which straps were drawn and tied round the leg, holding the 
foot covering firmly in place. 'Tis said this sandal of the 
peasants in Southern Italy is most primitive form of footgear 
known in the world. 

We did not start for Naples till late in the afternoon and 
came home well laden. I had picked great masses of yellow 
and pink honeysuckle which we found growing with bravura 
over an old wall — peasants quaintly call it hands of the little 
Virgin, manine della Madonnina. Then we had Beppo, Duca 
G.'s handsome dog, which Marquis T. borrowed for a hunting 
trip to-day. And lastly, but far from least, a dozen beautiful 
eggs ! The Duchess, knowing the fondness of some Americans 
for eggs with their early coffee and rolls, had insisted we bring 
some home — fine large ones which looked more like goose than 
hen eggs. 

Mamma had one this morning and the egg cup looked star- 
tlingly American on the breakfast tray, — one never sees eggs 
served here. Maria, it seems, had a great time in having them 
make toast to accompany the egg. It burned or wouldn't brown 
at all, and the entire kitchen crew had hand at it until at last 
the head chef in desperation made some as one does croutons for 
soup — by throwing it into hot fat ! But mamma declared it 
delicious and extravagantly contemplates having toast and an 
egg each morning, since there is a cunning little dairy near here 
which we often pass and large baskets of fine looking eggs 
always standing in the window. Maria says she will always 
buy one as she comes from early Mass, but thoughts of a Missal 
accompanying an egg, or vice versa, strikes me as rather incon- 
gruous ! But it is said these Italian eggs are the best in Europe 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 205 

and exported aU over, — the income from them practically 
equaling that from olive oil. Perhaps the fact that hens are 
household pets over here and actually live in the family among 
the poorer class, has something to do with it, — or does some 
kind Saint attend to this also? 

I have the sweet anticipation of an engagement with the den- 
tist, Dr. Guerrini, to-morrow morning. I lost one of my porce- 
lain inlays last week and F. took me to Guerrini, although he 
hardly thought such a thing as porcelain inlays could be made 
this side of Paris. But Guerrini proved to be very up-to-date, 
knew all about them — was even at that moment putting one in 
a woman's mouth ! 

Dr. Guerrini, by the way, showed us a most curious piece of 
dental work, some three thousand or more years old, taken from 
an old Etruscan tomb. A human jaw and in it, a calf's tooth 
held firmly in place by gold fillings ! Wonderful to think of 
such marvelous ingenuity in a people living such ages ago ! — 
non e vero? 

Corpo di Bacco! — as Pasquale swears — what a letter ! It 
has stretched out unconsciously about this and that. Will you 
forgive it, caro mio, if I promise never to write again till after 
I leave Naples } " So hen tacer, ma non saprei dir poco " — I 
know how to hold my tongue, yet I would not know how to say 
little, when once I begin scribbling you of days in this most 
adorable Campania where sunshine is like the gold of old 
Etruscan tombs and life is one long festa. 



Naples — a city of love and laughter — 
A city in which to linger-longer ! '* 

— M. P. 



TO G. 

Napoli, February — 

I HAD a most amusing time at the station this morning. 
Mamma is at Sorrento you know^ and I had gone to the Fer- 
rovia with Maria to see some friends from London, who were 
leaving Naples for Rome — an English girl, Lady C, and her 
father, retired Admiral A. I think you never met them, but 
doubtless you will remember hearing us speak of them. They 
have been in Africa and here for only yesterday. 

This morning we had all arrived at the station in good season 
when C. thought of an important errand she should have at- 
tended to at the Steamship office. So she and Maria left us 
as there was plenty of time — Admiral A. is quite English and 
always makes it a point in life to be at least half an hour ahead 
of time ! I was to remain with him since he was in midst of 
relating one of his exciting adventures in Mediterranean waters. 
Before the story was finished, however, he spied some English 
friend outside the waiting-room and with exclamation of delight, 
rushed off to hail him, leaving me quite to myself. 

So I strolled out the door leading to the platform. One 
should show a ticket here just as one would at home, but of 
course I had none and smile of thanks to the porter were suf- 
ficient as often in America. I amused myself in making several 
turns up and down the length of the platform and around to 
where an incoming train was pouring out a small crowd of 
tourists who had chosen this early hour for arriving in Napoli. 
With them I approached the uscita leading to the street, scent- 
ing, perhaps, some such incident as befell Mark Twain. It was 
he, wasn't it, who deliberately threw away his European tram 

or railroad ticket ten or fifteen times and each time was re- 

206 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 207 

quired to pay his fare? — but in the end made five hundred dol- 
lars from the story based on the incident! 

Would I be allowed to enter the station without buying a 
ticket? I wondered^ and nonchalantly made my way forward. 
Doubtless not. For this, you must know, is a very important 
law over here — a conductor never takes up tickets on the Italian 
R. R. They are handed to the guard at destination — if you 
have no ticket you must buy one and pay an extra fine as well ! 
We seldom use the chemin de fer, so I am quite unknown as a 
resident to the guards and the uscita was yards away from the 
waiting-room door where the obliging portier had fallen victim to 
my American smile and allowed me access to the platform. But 
resolutely bound to test the Italian law and seeking — who knew 
what lively adventure ? — I bravely approached the entrance 
where eadh arrival must hand in their railroad ticket before they 
can be passed through. 

The guard reached mechanically for mine. Unconsciously I 
probably gave one of these Neapolitan shrugs. And by the way, 
these shrugs are wonderful things — not taught, but learned ; 
not to be described, yet a language in themselves — a noun, 
pronoun, verb, adverb, adjective, proposition, conjunction and 
so on ! Mine was perhaps a shrug of inter j ection — at least 
it certainly called forth decided interjections both in shrugs 
and words from the guard, and I had visions of thrilling ad- 
venture — being invited to the station headquarters and rcr 
quested to buy a ticket from heaven alone knew where. Paris 
perhaps ! — I had only one or two francs and a few stray soldi 
in my big silver purse. Maria always insists on carrying my 
money tucked away in her waist — an Italian trait ! The other 
travelers were being passed through on the other side — I was 
detaining no one and resolved to see the test to the very end. 
The guards — there were three who had gathered now — held 
voluble conversation interlarded with excited exclamations. 
Sight of a signorina traveling unchaperoned was doubtless amaz- 
ing, but idea that one would travel without a ticket, simply 
astounding ! 

Yet just at this crisis who should appear but Admiral A.! 
He speaks practically no Italian, but I knew quest of adventure 
must end. Still I had no intention of giving up my idea of 



208 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

going through the uscita, and — walked through to join 
him! I fully expected they would of course stop me. But it 
seems that here in Italy a signorina americane is allowed even 
privilege of traveling without a railroad ticket if it so please 
her! 

After their train left, we drove to the Botanical Gardens — 
its magnificent hot-house and grounds filled with as many rare 
flowers as the Aquarium with wonderful marine animals; and 
surely of the two, flowers are to be preferred. The collection 
of palms and other tropical plants is especially fine here, though 
one sees but few palms in the Neapolitan gardens throughout the 
City. 'Tis said that long ago there were vast numbers, but all 
cut down after the final expulsion of the hated Saracen as 
being relic of their infidel rule. 

'Tis said too, that even to-day the Neapolitan piccoli when 
they cry will turn their faces to a wall as to a wailing place — 
a relic of Saracenic rule which hatred and the centuries has 
never been able to down as with the palms. 

The lower classes of Romans and Italians of the North are 
fond of calling these Neapolitans, " Mbors " — considered 
by the Neapolitans themselves as great insult. They are 
Neapolitans and ever have been since day of Parthenope the 
Siren; and though other men of Italy now call themselves Ital- 
ians, rather than Romans, Venetians and so on, these people of 
Naples, even in this twentieth century, seldom call themselves 
other than Neapolitans. And though in all Italy to-day there 
are no more loyal people to the House of Savoy than the 
Neapolitans, their province of Naples is to them yet a king- 
dom. They snap their fingers at the rest of Italy and at the 
whole world ! For do they not dwell in the Paradise of Italy 
— even as Italy is the Paradise of the world ? 

From the gardens we climbed up some of these wonderfully 
picturesque little stair-streets leading to the Observatory — not 
•far from; entrance to the beautiful Park of Capodimonte. 
Professor F., a great friend of Duchess P., had asked me to 
come sometime to see the meteorological instruments, — said to 
be some of the finest in existence. The Italians are quite as 
up-to-date in this science as in astronomy in which they have 
always taken the lead. Professor F. was not in, however, hav- 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 209 

ing gone, one of his assistants said, to Rome to give a lecture 
and he himself wanted to show us around, though he was evi- 
dently surprised an American girl should be interested in 
meteorology. Italian girls are extremely clever but there is 
general impression American girls care for little except gowns 
and having a good time. This assistant, by the way, looked 
ever so much like Professor P. who taught the meteorology at 
school — doubtless you will wonder I should have decided to 
wait Professor F.'s return before being shown through the Ob- 
servatory ! 

But the picturesque streets had far greater charm for me this 
morning than handsome men or meteorological instruments. 
Coming down through the tortuous little stairs we had company 
of a large flock of goats — their leader wearing with the large 
tinkling bell, an amulet against the Evil Eye. I wanted to ask 
the herder why the leader alone was protected, but a signora in 
bright red petticoat, suddenly screamed at him from a balcony 
hung high in the air and he and one of his goats disappeared 
with agility up a stairway. 

We stopped just below there at Church of the Miracles where 
are some lovely frescoes by Fa Presto. One of the Sisters of 
the adjoining convent was in the Church and took us into the 
gardens — picking a mass of roses for me. There is a seminary 
for girls in the convent now and the sister told us shyly that she 
herself taught the English. She spoke it sweetly, using French 
frequently to assist her vocabulary. I promised to come with 
mamma some day to visit the convent — she seemed pathetically 
happy to meet an American. 

We went into another of these dark little churches on our 
way back to Piazza Cavour to find a cab. These little Neapoli- 
tan churches with their faded old pictures and sweet shrines to 
Madonna, are tucked away in the humblest of streets — like 
rare jewels hidden from the eye of tourists, who, as Dumas 
said, know only three streets in all Naples ! In this last 
Church the old sacristan unveiled for us a beautiful picture in 
one of the chapels. We asked who it was by, but he answered, 
'' Chi sa? " It was a Flight of the Holy Family from Bethle- 
hem — San Giuseppe with his staff leading the ass on which 
Madonna Mary rode with Gesulino in her arms. And in ac- 



210 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

cordance with the old legend, the husbandman was portrayed 
cutting his wheat; for when the Holy Family fled and Herod 
sent his men in pursuit, God, you know, gave Madonna Mary 
power to work a miracle that they might escape safely. 

As the Holy Family in their flight passed by a field where a 
man was sowing wheat. Madonna said to him, " To whomever 
asks if a Family has passed this way, say * Such persons passed 
this way when I was sowing the wheat.' " And that night the 
miracle occurred. For that night the wheat sowed only that 
morning, grew so that the next morning when the husbandman 
returned to his field, he found to his amazement it was ready to 
be cut. Later in the morning Herod's officers came by and in- 
quired if an old man with a Woman and Child had traveled that 
way and the husbandman, who in astonishment was reaping 
his wheat, replied in all truth just as Madonna had bid him — 
"Yes, when I was sowing this wheat such a family passed this 
way." Thus were the officers turned back discouraged and the 
Holy Flight accomplished in safety. 

And the painting, like the miracle, was beautiful too — faded, 
just as the story of the miracle has faded in the minds of men; 
yet full of beauty. Still the little Chiesa which held it is far too 
humble to be mentioned by guide books. A little Church for the 
poor, where brown-eyed people scorched by hot Southern sun and 
sorrow, steal in to kneel before Madonna — Mother of Many Sor- 
rows who also shares theirs. In our rapture over the picture, 
we forgot to ask name of the tucked-away little treasure-house 
of precious things, but we shall go again some day — if indeed 
we are able ever to find our way back through the tortuous little 
streets, and chaos of old palazzi. 

For so tortuous the streets in this old part of the City, that 
instead of coming out near the Museum as we had intended, 
we found ourselves down near Porta San Gennaro! No cabs 
in sight — my watch said nearly thirteen. Men and boys lay 
curled up in the sun taking thfeir siesta in picturesque pose; other 
workmen sat along the curb eating their breakfast of dark bread 
and some odorous mixture a buxom woman of portentous ear- 
rings cooked in large caldron in the street. 

I, too, was hungry. There was no one at the hotel with whom 
to lunch, even did I return, so why not a salad and cheese and 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 211 

wine in some little ostena near where we were? Though Maria 
wasn't as enthusiastic over the idea — she doesn't love these Nea- 
politans as I do and often tells me with a fine shade of disparage- 
ment in her tone that we will find the people of la hella Firenze 
and her sweet Tuscany far different from Neapolitans. Still 
she allowed me to have my way — just as she always does in the 
end — and we asked an old woman where we would find trat- 
toria or cafe, 

" Where they make a nice fritto misto? " she inquired, giving 
the matter careful consideration. But I hastily assured her 
with Maria's assistance that fritto misto would not be necessary. 
Fritto misto being a mysterious Italian dish of brains and arti- 
chokes and heaven knoweth what not! Exceedingly good when- 
ever I have had it for lunch at any of the Neapolitan homes, 
quite passable when one orders it at the hotel or Gambrinus, 
yet not to be dreamed of even though starving, in a little trat- 
toria such as one would find around Porta San Gennaro! Bread 
and cheese and a bottle of red wine would do beautifully we told 
the old woman. 

As she pondered over where to direct us for this simple fare 
— feast no doubt in her eyes — Maria caught sight of a place 
not far away where small tables were spilled out on the side- 
walk in the sunshine — infallible sign of cafe or ristorante! 
" But it is there we can go, signorina mia! " she told me, quite 
elated at having discovered a place so near at hand, for doubt- 
less Maria too was hungry since I had carried her off to the 
Ferrovia the instant she came in from Mass. But the old 
woman came up closer and mysteriously cocking her fingers 
into horns, whispered to Maria, " Madonna mia! but thou must 
not take the illustrious signorina there ! True, it is clean — 
but clean ! But, Santo Diol the man — he has Evil Eye — but 
cattivo! " 

" Ecco! but we have no fear ! " we replied bravely, fully de- 
termined that was the very place to which we should go to ask 
for our bread and cheese and wine. Yet the old dame evi- 
dently thought it running great risk and still held her fingers 
in an horn. ** The signorina eccellenza is provided.^ " she 
questioned, looking closely to see if there was amulet around 
my neck. " Ah, but certainly ! " I answered, not attempting 



212 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

to explain it was with quest of venture rather than with amu- 
lets I was provided. 

And though F. was saying only the other day that the Bible 
itself says, "Eat thou not the bread of him that hath an evil 
eye/' we walked boldly into that humble little ristorante — bravely 
taking a small table placed directly under picture of Pius X. 
Surely that, I whispered to Maria would be better than wearing 
amulets and holding our fingers in the form of horns — diffi- 
cult task when one is eating ! 

And yet I remembered too that there was one of the Popes 
himself who was supposed to be a jettatore — Pio Nono. For 
in defense and as proof that Evil Eye exists among all people, 
among the mighty as well as among the lowly, some Neapolitans 
will remind you how the Holy Father, Pio Nono, had an Evil 
Eye. Of how when he visited the column to Madonna in the 
Piazza di Spagna at Rome and had blessed both column and 
men who were working on it, that same day one of the work- 
men fell from the scaffold and was killed — but killed ! and 
when time came for raising the column no workman in all Rome 
could be found to assist unless the Holy Father would promise 
to stay away. Thus has one proof that Buon Dio who sends 
the weather, puts an evil eye into certain men, be they ever so 
saintly or exalted. But why — chi sa? 'Tis one of the un- 
fathomable mysteries of this murmuring old city. 

Yet no one has ever been heard even to breathe that Sua San- 
tita of to-day has evil eye and so we somehow felt very se- 
cure as we found the little table directly under picture of his 
sweet, noble face. Though of course one must never confuse 
religion with their terror of Evil Eye and must remember that 
even a beloved Pope is no more an amulet against it than 
would be a medal of Madonna Mary. Horns alone are able to 
save one at such a time ! But we were quite fearless and whis- 
pered boldly to each other that our little proprietor had dark 
solemn eyes like Dante and far more triste than evil. Perhaps 
he knows — povero! — that people call him jettatore and always 
make the horns when they see him, else avoid him entirely. 

He seemed delighted to see us. Perhaps I am first American 
who has ever eaten in his little trattoria — 'tis quite off any 
street which a tourist would ever explore. He was his own 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 213 

gargon and flew to bring white cloth to spread on the marble- 
topped table and to place my roses in carafe; then turned his 
attention to making suggestions for the lunch — quite ignoring 
the two men who sat near the door rapping on their table for 
his attention and who^ as they soon rose to go, saluted us elabo- 
rately. And so we had our salad and rolls and fruit and gor- 
gonzola verde and a graceful, long necked, straw covered flask 
of the red country wine — all served as gracefully as our own 
gargon here at the hotel could have done, and seasoned with 
our host's eloquent conversation. 

The picture of the Holy Father was a splendid pose, I told 
him as he hovered near to dress the salad and pour the wine. 
Ah, the signorina liked it? — he had bought it in Rome. But 
Rome ! he added impressively, for Rome, you know, seems great 
way off to these people. The signorina had been in Rome, — 
but many time perhaps.^ he inquired graciously. No, I con- 
fessed, the signorina had not yet seen Rome, though Browning 
says every one soon or late comes round that way. " Ecco! 
But it was wonderful — was Rome! Yet, che voule, signorina? 
there is no comparison — che-e-e, but none with our Napoli! " 
All of which I assured him I knew to be perfectly correct even 
though I had yet to see Rome. Maria politely refrained from 
joining in comparison of the two cities. She has spent several 
winters in Rome with a Tuscan Senator's wife and dearly loves 
the place. 

" Signor has seen the Holy Father when he was in Rome?" 
she inquired presently with the gracious condescension she 
always uses in speaking with these Neapolitans. 

" But no — it could not be arranged when I was there," he 
murmured sadly. " The signorina has heard that the Holy 
Father is indisposed this week? " he added turning to me, since 
with ready intuition he doubtless realized that it was I who 
was far more simpatica than Maria, his own Italian country- 
woman. 

"Ah, but no!" I replied. 

** Ecco! — but truly," he asserted positively. "Still His 
Holiness can not die yet." He crossed himself devoutly. 

" No — he has much work to do yet," I returned, thinking 
it that to which the man referred. 



214 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

" Che-e-e, the work — but yes ! " our host answered gravely. 
" But it is his nine years that are not yet finished, signorina! " 

" His nine years ? " I questioned^ since I did not at all un- 
derstand. 

" Che-e-e! does the signorina not know that nine years are 
for our Holy Father the Magic Number? " 

"But no!*" 

" Santa Dio! — but yes/' Maria chimed in with corrobora- 
tion of the statement. 

" For nine years the Holy Father was school-boy at Reise; 
for nine years student at Padua; for nine years curate at Tom- 
bolo; for nine years priest at Salzano; for nine years canon 
at Treviso; for nine years bishop at Mantua; for nine years 
Cardinal-Patriarch at Venice!" our host related slowly and 
Maria confirmed each item. " — the signorina sees that nine — 
it is the Magic Number ! — non e vero? " 

It seems 'tis quite true — life of Pius X has been strangely 
ruled by this figure nine. Perhaps, who knows ? — God may 
will that it shall be for only nine years once again. 

On the walls of the little trattoria were pictures also of the 
King and Queen and Queen Mother. And around the picture 
of Queen Margherita — " that Queen who wore crown of her 
people's undying love/' as Carducci has sweetly sung — there 
hung some feathery green stuff. We asked him why he had 
honored the Queen Mother and not Queen Elena. Che-e-e, 
the signorina would like to know.^* Ah, the signorina was sinn- 
patica! Ecco! he would relate. And being assured of my 
eagerness, he explained very carefully and slowly that I might 
follow. 

One night he had dreamed he saw the Queen Mother; and 
though he was very poor then — but poor ! he took his last soldi 
the next morning and bought the biglietti di Lotto, selecting 
the three numbers which stood for the Queen, the white dress 
which she wore and the coach in which she rode. He paused 
impressively while Maria and I waited breathless for what was 
to follow. These were the three numbers drawn that week. 
He who had been poor, — was rich, — but rich ! He took a trip 
to Rome and when he returned, set up as master of the little 
trattoria in which we sat. I thought it wonderfully romantic. 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 215 

He is the first I've ever met who has won a terzo — the three 
numbers. 

But^ povero! he has taken the biglietti di lotto every week 
since — for three years ; and has never again found numeri 
fortunati. Had he only saved all those soldi and lire which have 
now gone into tombola, he might be almost a millionaire — as 
millionaires are reckoned here in Napoli. Yet he still has faith 
some day will again find him winner and it is doubtless far 
greater and brighter dream in his life than would be thought 
of an account in one of the Savings Banks. 

Having received our many felicitations upon his splendid for- 
tune of three years ago, he carefully drew out from inside 
pocket of his old black coat, the tickets which he has taken 
for Tombola this week. Perhaps I should have discouraged 
his persistent patronizing of the Lotto, year in and year out; 
but one might as well try to persuade the people against their 
belief in the Evil Eye, and I too, boldly brought forth biglietti 
I had taken for this week! For all Naples, you must know, 
buys the biglietti di Lotto — 'tis as natural as to eat. He 
graciously hoped la signorina would be the fortunate one and I 
as politely trusted it would be he. And though generally I 
quite forget about the drawing until I see the numbers posted 
in the little lotto banks on Sunday, no doubt this week I shall 
be hanging on the telephone anxiously waiting result. Or per- 
haps, if F. is here, I can coax him to take me to the drawing 
itself — said to be full of excitement ; dense crowds packed into 
a little street near Santa Chiara, each man or woman expecting 
that he or she will in a few moments be rich — but rich ! 

Before we left, our host with great formality asked Maria 
for permission to play three numbers on me and the happy cir- 
cumstance of my finding his trattoria. Of course I assented 
graciously. Who knows but that he may again win — life is 
mass of lucky numbers for Tombola if one but chooses wisely ! 
And if, perchance he holds the numeri fortunati next week, after 
having played on me, will he beg my picture for the trattoria 
in order to enshrine it with green as he has the Queen Mother .f* 
Mamma mia! 

And so you see we chatted of this and that and lingered over 
our lunch until it was quite fifteen o'clock and the long lines 



216 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

of solemn little priests-to-be in their black gowns and black kid 
glores, began to go by for their afternoon promenade in Piazza 
Cavour. The whole lunch was less than four lire — conversa- 
tion gratis ! Happily Maria always pays the bills and attends 
to the feeing. I Avould have been quite at loss as to whether 
to tip our host or not. As it was I thought it rather indelicate 
of her to leave a meager five soldi tip on the tray. 

It was not until we were seated in the cab he had called for 
us^ that I remembered again the Evil Eye as I saw our jehu 
carefully, but deftly, make the horns. Evidently our host has 
reputation of jettatore throughout the quarter. But when we 
come again to visit the sisters in the convent of I Mercoli and 
to hunt the little church with the sweet faded picture of the 
Holy Flight, it is with this jettatore we shall surely again have 
lunch. Since for Evil Eye, I care nothing, but for these simple 
kindly people I care motto, molto! 



And at each corner, 'neath its roof of tiles. 
Hung with poor offerings, the Madonna smiles 
In her rude shrine so picturesque with dirt 
Is this not Italy? Your nerves are hurt 
By that expression — dirt — nay, then I see 
You love not nature, art or Italy." 

— W. W. Storey 



TO E. 

Naples, February — 

WE'RE tremendously disappointed, cara, by news that you 
may not be over to join us this Spring. Mamma mia! 
could you but realize the prodigious picturesque and marvelous 
beauty on which you are so coolly turning your back ! For you, 
so in love with your Art, would be in constant state of ecstasy 
over this paradisical land. Napoli you must know is joy eternal 
to artists. 

There is sufficient in the very city to employ one — even a 
Fa Presto! — for several lifetimes. Not to speak of the entic- 
ing, enchanting surroundings — Virgil's lovely Posilipo, Sor- 
rento, Amalfi; Capri with its women of much beauty and great 
charm and its Grotto of still greater beauty and greater charm. 
And dozens and dozens of other places charmantes, each clamor- 
ing for you, since this most adorable Naples, you must remem- 
ber, is quite unlike Rome and Madrid which have no suburbs, 
but is center of countless picturesque swarming little towns and 
villages each brimful of material. Surtout, there is ever her 
magnificent, matchless situation on this bay of Parth^nope — 
theme of which no artist ever tires, though none are able to por- 
tray her to their satisfaction or catch that subtle vibrating light 
of Neapolitan sun and sky and sea. Yet you yourself catch 
these difficult lights and shades so wonderfully — who knows 
what you might do here with the thousand shades of blue.'* 

And perhaps it is you, cara mia, who might bring to canvas 

217 



218 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

this smile which the city wears like Mona Lisa. BaflBing to 
artists who call her only gay and laughing^ and often believe 
her Satanic just as some call that Mona Lisa's smile Satanic. 
Yet^ do you know, I myself have fathomed the secret? And 
though like that subtle Mona Lisa, this Naples seems to laugh 
and flirt with all the world, mock one and defy one to fathom 
the mystery lying just beyond the smile, she is after all, I'm 
somehow sure, but smiling to hide her sadness — j ust as Mona 
Lisa smiled while sitting for Leonardo. If you don't under- 
stand, come see for yourself. Though perhaps you would never 
agree with me, and would unite with rest of the world in calling 
her but a bold, gay flirt. 

Even so and though you despaired of catching that hint of 
sadness lying just beneath the smiling surface, there would be 
always that wondrous wealth of material in detail awaiting you 
in these Neapolitan by-ways overflowing with the picturesque 
life of the lower class. For the most picturesque life in the 
whole wide world is undoubtealy to be found among these 
labyrinthine side-streets of this semi-Oriental old Napoli. Here 
live the poverty-pinched people as picturesque as they are poor, 
and though they are poor in soldi, they are rich in a thousand 
things we have not. And if one seeks perfect picturesque with 
no American face or sound of cockney English or guttF>ral Ger- 
man to break the spell, there is no place in the world where it 
will be found as here in Napoli, in the by-ways and steep stair- 
streets full of deep shadows and secrets and vivid color and 
dark-eyed people and flowers and breaks of song. For here 
the people laugh and sing in the old ways and long centuries 
past are not displaced by the Continentality, as John Hays 
cleverly calls it, which more or less aff'ects the nobili. And 
there is in all the wide world but this one picturesque Neapolitan 
life. No other city of Italy can off'er you anything like it. 

The gradoni, as the little streets with the steps are called 
which lead you straight up seemingly into the blue sky, are a 
very setting for opera, and life and scenes enacted therein are 
far more thrilling, you must know, than any opera the aristo- 
cratic San Carlos or La Scala ever staged. 'Tis here we our- 
selves love to linger, though many will tell you it is far from 
safe here in tliis satanic old Naples where Camorra flourishes 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 219 

and stiletti are carried concealed by half that walk therein. 
But we have gone time and time again and often quite alone, 
not even Maria with us; yet had we been H. R. H. the sweet 
adorable Elena, in lieu of two forestieri in search of pictur- 
esque and mystery, we could have met with no more courtesy 
and simpatia. 

One reason possibly why it is so safe for women to go un- 
attended into these very poor quarters of the great city, is fact 
that so many of the nohili here in Naples live in the old palazzi 
whose ground floor is occupied by poveri and, accustomed to 
seeing people of a different class daily, they would not as soon 
think of snatching purse or piece of jewelry as would our own 
people in the slums of large American cities were they half so 
poverty stricken as many of this old Naples. But we ourselves 
think this prosaic reasoning of little import and has nothing to 
do with the question compared with the natural gracious ways 
of the people in which a simpatia and courtesy are as innate as 
is blue to the Neapolitan sky. And those who have known all 
nations well will tell you these Italians, whatever their faults 
may be, are always distinctly aristocratic when compared with 
the same class in other countries. And though the popoli 
hassi of Napoli are in small sense Italians and one hears of 
Camorra and mala vita flourishing here as in no other city on 
face of the globe, yet the people are of that aristocratic type, 
gracious and delightful alway. Goethe, wasn't it? said Italians 
are like courtiers who consider themselves the first people of 
the land, and this applies to-day to Neapolitans as well as to 
so-called Italians and to the poveri here as much as to the 
nohili, though it is long ago since Goethe traveled into this land 
where the citronen hluh'n. 

But life changes little among the poveri of these by-ways of 
Napoli and the people and their street life is the same perhaps 
as in the days of divine Parthenope, while the greatest knowl- 
edge of southern Italian life and the most stupendous mass of 
picturesque eye ever beheld are to be found in these old 
labyrinthine lanes and stair-streets which rise amphitherically 
up into the azure sky, flight upon flight of steps from the 
sapphirine waters of the bay. For outdoors as well as in, it 
is all up or down stairs here in this old city of Parthenope, you 



220 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

know. And it is here in the gradoni and vicoli that one under- 
stands the wisdom of the old builders, since hot summer sun 
and heat can not penetrate into these narrow ways filled with 
i poveri unable to afford a villeggiatura. Neither does Sirocco 
nor the cold Tramontana, which more open ways know to their 
sorrow, easily find way into these tucked away little streets — 
mere threads of streets known but to those fo7'estieri who linger 
here for long and love the people. 

But if you love the people and would know the Old World 
charm of lingering in the side streets full of flowers and shadows 
and dark eyes which smile back at you^ it is surely here to 
Naples that you must come. The people and their picturesque 
street life forms the chief interest of the city, though some will 
say it is the Museum with its wealth of sculpture, and others, 
more bold, will tell you the Aquarium! But there's nothing 
here like this life of the popoli hassi and the people themselves, 
for in them one finds all things. Beauty and charm and sim- 
patia and picturesque all jumbled together. Yet rien de trop. 
Here an artist might linger daj^ after day from early till the 
little lamps burn before Madonna, never failing to find some 
new attraction and charm among the immense population of 
bustling idlers. For never were people so rushing and bustling 
and at same moment such millionaires of leisure as here ! And 
never were idlers so animated, so vivacious and gay as here in 
these by-ways of this gladsome, golden Napoli. No one here 
pays slightest attention to that old Italian proverb, " L' 
own chi parra picca e sapiente" — the man who talks little is 
wise ! More words are spoken in one of these little side streets 
in one hour than in Stockbridge in a year ! They talk over 
mere nothing as though it were life and death affair, for there 
is always time to chat with one's neighbor, time to laugh and 
talk and sing here in Napoli. And this perhaps is one of the 
many whys we Southerners find this old city of the siren so 
full of charm. And yet the idea that the people are idle here 
is the most absurd thing in the world ! True there are still the 
lazzoroni, so called from that " certain beggar named Lazarus," 
who bask in the sun and dream their dreams and are never seen 
to exert themselves, but never were people as whole so full 
of affairs as these of Naples ! Darting and dashing here and 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 221 

there^ crying and calling their wares, bargaining and bartering 
for everj'tliing under this shining Neapolitan sun from amulets 
of a Turk to prayer-cards of a Franciscan friar, and toiling so 
ardently there is not inch of soil which is not affectionately 
cultivated. And yet they are all millionaires of leisure ! — it's 
simply one of the million mj'steries which abound. One of those 
inexplicable mysteries you may not understand till once you are 
here. 

You should have been with us this very morning, lingering 
among the people in some of these same wonderful Neapolitan 
streets — called streets by courtesy you know, though in reality 
only narrow passage-way cutting like thread between high walls 
of Naples yellow and salmon and blues and mauves of old 
weather-beaten palazzi, their exteriors decorated with hundreds 
and hundreds of little iron work balconies wliich in their turn 
are gayly bedecked with — well everything under this blue sky ! 
from a brilliant string of red peppers and pots of carnations, 
to old mattress and weekly wash. And not until you see for 
yourself the multitude of these haphazardly placed little bal- 
conies which honey-comb each side of these Neapolitan by-ways, 
can you realize anything of the prodigious picturesque. Dick- 
ens, you know, in his Italian Notes says, " If year after year, 
season after season, it had rained balconies, hailed balconies, 
snowed balconies, blown balconies," there" could be no greater 
disorder and confusion in their arrangement. And their own 
picturesque is only exceeded by the wonderful conglomeration 
of picturesque which is festooned and draped thereon. Long 
strings of the red peppers with their scarlet coloring giving 
warmth to the whole street — for even in mid-summer they are 
full of deep shadows, just as they are full of mystery and 
secrets. Chains of the late tomatoes to be converted by mys- 
terious process into savory sauce for pasta of special occasions. 
Ropes of garlic — garlic everywhere ! And great bunches of 
many odorous herbs such as guanto di nostra signora (Our 
Lady's Glove), whose root Virgil himself declared efficient 
against Evil Eye, A bulging bed and many-patched garments 
of all colors and shapes. Children who peep down on you with 
solemn dark eyes and signore in faded petticoats and tinkling 
ear-rings who laugh and chat across the narrow street with 



222 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

their neighbors whom they can almost touch, or scream down 
and bargain for fruit and greens with the debonair vendors. 
Indeed signore who lean over balconies and seem about to upset 
them, are quite as much a part the prodigious picturesque as 
are pots of carnations which grow bravely adorning each bal- 
cony of Napoli. And nowhere is pot-culture so well understood 
as here in Naples. Ground is a luxury many of the nobili do 
not know. But no matter how high in air one may live, or how 
poor and dark the street, there will always be pots and pots of 
flowers, thriving gayly in windows and balconies. Generally 
carnations — dear delight of Neapolitan heart ! Carnations 
and carnations ! For roses, camellias, even the lilies of 
Madonna herself are held in cold favor when carnations may 
be had. But why — chi sa? This morning we had taken some 
of the snowy camellias from our angelic flower merchant on 
the Chiaia steps, to leave at some little shrine of Madonna tucked 
away in the gradoni through which we sauntered. For little 
shrines to Madonna are like the flowers of this smiling Cam- 
pania, you know, and spring up for love of God. But we had 
been wiser to have brought carnations rather than camellias, 
so an old nonna making lace near-by advised. And though the 
pure white flowers seemed far sweeter for Blessed Madonna 
than frivolous carnations, who would endeavor to persuade a 
Neapolitan living in the very shadow of Madonna's shrine that 
you were wiser of the two? Or that Madonna loved our gift 
half so well as those humble paper flowers fashioned by humble 
fingers of those who had been made glad by some answer to their 
prayer. And you see it's not only the balconies hung high and 
haphazard and filled with their thousand things which make 
the picturesque of these by-ways. The whole street, tiny, as it 
is, is as full of picturesque as sun is full of gold. For first 
of all there are always these sweet shrines scattered here and 
there for love of God, and Madonna of Pinacoteca wall with her 
name in Baedeker and Hare must often long for the love laid 
at feet of Madonna in the humble by-ways and wish, perhaps, 
some great master had made her less lovely if to be stared at by 
tourists and never know again the joy of hearing a humble 
prayer is ever to be her fate. Yet perhaps you will think 
Madonna of the Gallery far more to be envied than Madonna 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 223 

of the street who must gaze upon gaudy flowers fashioned of 
paper and queer votive offerings of arms and legs attesting the 
grateful heart of many a miraculously restored povero, and will 
no more agree with me in this than in my conviction that Naples 
is sad and only smiling to hide a sorrow, as Mona Lisa smiled 
for Leonardo when her little daughter had not long been dead. 
But of one thing I am certain. You will surely agree with me 
before you have delved deeper into the secret-filled street, that 
it holds more picturesque than could be crammed into ten times 
the space elsewhere. And though you may not yet feel the 
sweet subtle mystery of Italy, you will plunge on and on in 
quest of the picturesque which fairly rushes to meet you. Past 
open doorways where one may look into humble homes in 
which brave show of burnished copper gleams and a great bed 
— but truly immense ! reposes in state. As well it may, for 'tis 
practically extent of the furnishings, though to be sure one 
should not forget Madonna who has her shrine and tiny lamp 
inside as well as in the street, nor pictures of dear San Rocco 
who has, you know, power over disease and of all Neapolitan 
saints after San Oennaro, none is so highly honored. His 
gaudy lithographs light up many a dark shadow on the wall 
just as he himself has brought light and health to many a 
trusting Neapolitan. And then there are the tiny shops, mere 
recesses in the wall, where copper is made into vessels like unto 
those wonderful utensils they used at Pompeii two thousand 
years ago and burnished by some means mysterious so that it 
holds Neapolitan sunlight on its surface. And other darksome 
little recesses (which one calls shops by courtesy just as they 
call the passage-way a street) in which a cobbler works, though 
heaven knoweth how, since it is so dark and shadowy even at 
mid-day when the sun for moment descends. And just across 
from him, there is a green-grocer ensconced in still tinier recess, 
but boasting brave show of lettuces and other greens which 
spring up in these Neapolitan gardens for sheer love of grow'- 
ing in this city of the siren. He's always artistic — this old 
green-grocer; just as he or she is always old — and adds a 
heap of pale yellow lemons nestling amid their own leaves to 
his insalata, or oranges whose Hesperian gold gives warmth 
to the cool greens. And of course there are strings of the 



224 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

scarlet peppers ever round his doorway and chains of garlic 
— always garlic ! And wire baskets, in which eggs repose 
serenely and though no one is seen ever to buy one, it does not 
matter in the least — for they have all been hard boiled ! 
Always hard boiled, — since luxury of lire over which to cook 
one's own eggs is not often theirs in these mysterious by-ways 
of Napoli. Indeed the Neapolitan signora troubles herself but 
slightly with culinary arts, for there are the delicatessen shops 
where even poorest of the poor may buy for the soldi fortune 
throws in their path, everything palatable for less, no doubt, 
than price of charcoal for cooking it over their own scaldino. 
Dishes not only palatable but delicious too ! Snail soups 
cooked in great caldrons in the streets and sold, together with 
a quarter of a ring of the dark bread, which, before 'tis baked, 
is carried to the ovens on long planks all exposed, and once the 
baking done, is carried out again to hunt its purchaser strung 
on long poles. And then there are the wriggling, squirming 
little eels — great delicacy for feste! And sausages reeking 
with garlic and fancy little seed cakes which for aught I know 
are dashed well with garlic too. Always garlic ! But green 
salads and fruit, of whose wealth they say we who are here at 
this season can form no idea, play important part in the food 
of these humble people. For Italians not only eat very little, 
but 'tis said there is no people on face of the globe who under- 
stands better how to eat wholesomely. The habit of Germans 
in eating and drinking every few hours from early till late is 
to these people — impossibilita! 

But after all, it's the people themselves who are even more 
picturesque than their life or surroundings. Here the bambini 
piccolissimi will stare at you with the solemn dark eyes which 
already hold sunshine and shadows just as later in life their 
eyes will hold sadness alone, while their lips will always laugh. 
That is the way of the people in Naples you know. And some 
the bambini stare exactly like Fra Angelica's dear angiolini, 
while others are like Perugino fashioned them and seem forever 
to have the mumps ! But their older brothers are as impudent 
as those angiolini Fra Lippo Lippi drew and add to the pictur- 
esque turmoil of these by-ways by practising here in the shadows 
all those stunts they mean to use down on streets the tourists 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 225 

travel — cartwheels under your horse's heels which, simply to 
behold_, make one's head spin like a gyroscope ! And there are 
the boys quite grown — if indeed these Neapolitans ever truly 
grow up — who are swarthy young vendors with greens and 
cheeses and poles of bread and baskets of many other things 
of which American eye has never beheld the likeness. Queer, 
uncanny delicacies, which eye having beholden, no American 
tongue would have boldness ever to taste, though the venditori 
will tell you 'tis food for the very gods ! All which no doubt 
is true enough since they themselves are debonair young gods, 
fit subjects for city of Parthenope and far more attractive many 
times than those nobili of the Toledo who stare at one so merci- 
lessly. For they are not afraid — these young gods — to 
sweep oiF their caps with gay flourish and radiant smile and 
call a bold, " Buon giorno! " which is all so gracious and frank 
and altogether as a god may deign to two forestieri, that one 
returns, " Buon giorno! '* as they climb up and up into the sky 
and the god trips down, calling loud " Ah-a-a-ah! ** to the 
donkey buried in load of greens by his side. Though business 
is not so pressing that it will not permit of his stopping to join 
with swiftly flashing fingers in game of mora played by those 
gathered for warmth round a little charcoal brazier. For there 
are always fingers flashing in that exciting game of mora here 
in Napoli and I fancy, too, that five minutes of mora would 
warm one's fingers better by far than all scaldini of the city. 
And one's wits as well. Then there are the chattering women 
of blue-black hair — women of all sorts and sizes, but always 
dark of eyes and sad too, if you but look, though their lips 
gossip gayly and ears tinkle with ear-rings which flash as 
boldly as the Neapolitan sun scintillates on water of the bay. 
And there are girls who return your smile just as Correggio's 
girls all smile back at one, though I doubt if we smiled so 
readily did we bend over artificial flower making and embroid- 
ery, hour after hour with scarcely lira a day for pay and that 
to be handed over for family use. 

Thousands of the artificial flowers used all over Europe and 
which we ourselves in America buy as of Paris manufacture are 
made here in Naples by these smiling brown-eyed women and 
girls whose fingers are quite as deft as the Parisian though the 



226 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

world does not know, and buys the flowers only after making 
sure of the " Made in Paris " label on the box. Hundreds and 
hundreds of pairs of gloves too, which have their buttons with 
the bold stamp " Made in England/' are of Naples — the work 
of these same clever Neapolitan girls whose pay is less than 
twenty cents a day and must go into the family treasury. They 
do lovely embroidery too, though the work in the shadowy little 
shops must be terrible on one's eyes — much worse than the 
finest of the lace making, for that is done at home out in the 
streets where one may gossip with their neighbor as their fingers 
fly. For the Italian woman, like the French, is really wonder- 
fully clever with her needle. The hourgeoise can manage the 
latest styles out of odds and ends seemingly by wave of wand 
and make as brave an appearance as many a member of the 
nobili who orders from Paris direct. Maria herself is a won- 
der. Give her some tulle, a whiff of lace and a flower and she 
will transform the shabbiest old gown in your wardrobe into 
creation Cheruit herself -might well envy. Ah, these Italians ! 
And the longer one is here less and less grows one's dependence 
on those French who for long years have supposedly held 
championship in so many branches of the arts. Indeed we had 
not been here two weeks before we saw it was the Italian, not 
the wily Frenchman, who was true artiste de cuisine. And other 
honors long laid at their feet gave way one by one like grass 
before the sickle. Just now 'tis being whispered among Neapoli- 
tan nobili that the Queen Elena herself is urging the women 
of her court and all women of Italy in general, to awake to the 
fact that Italy is able to set her own styles and need no longef 
follow meekly in footsteps of French whims. Yet so long as 
the elegant Duchessa d'Aosta appears in Neapolitan tea-rooms 
in French creations so alluring, Paquin and clever Cheruit need 
have no great fear, for Neapolitans adore the taste of this 
queenly Helene de France and 'tis very simple to see she is 
ruler of Naples. 

Yet anything so prosaic as mere style is of small purport 
compared with all the picturesque and charm of the faded old 
gowns worn by dark signore of these by-ways. Old reds and 
blues and yellows faded by weather and time, but like the 
streets themselves — the shabbier and older, the more pictur- 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 227 

esque. And though you may think their gowns might often be 
some cleaner^ you will surely agree that the women are coiffes 
exquisitely. It may be because the coiffure is always built out 
in the very street itself^ under the friendly guidance of neigh- 
bors' hands and sympathetic advice flung down from an over- 
hanging balcony. But making one's toilet and eating one's 
meals and attending to a thousand other details quite in the 
streets in front of the dark room which forms their shelter or 
on one of the haphazard little balconies, is all just as much 
a part of the grand picturesque of these mysterious streets as 
are the flocks of goats who push past one boldly or the con- 
glomeration of street odors which assail — odors which are 
Naples' own! Subtle hints of flowers of many kinds and in- 
cense which wafts out from beyond the heavy leathern curtain 
of a tucked-away little church, and garlic, and only the gods 
knoweth what else, for only the old gods could tell you the 
names of all these queer garden deities which hang in festoons 
round doors and balconies, lending all sorts of odors to com- 
mingle with the others. True there is the dirt — dirt every- 
where! But that too is part the picturesque of this old Naples 
— a picturesque which Rome with her great water supply and 
many public fountains has lost and can never find. But if you 
love Naples you will not complain of the dirt. You will see 
rather the smiling eyes of people who are scorched by long sum- 
mers of southern sun and who, in spite of poverty, are gracious 
and glad when forestieri stop to admire some cunning black- 
eyed bambinini or to leave flowers at shrine of some Madonna 
who is dear. 

Yet all this is a glad golden joy of Napoli one must know 
for themselves, and I can no more tell you of the prodigious 
picturesque of these little streets teeming with their animated 
life and furnishing such wealth of material to artists, than can 
I tell you of the million marvelous blues which you will find 
here in Neapolitan sky and sea and air. For there are many, 
many things in Italy you know not to be described in Anglican 
prose and but rarely by the brush. 

Yet as a far more persuasive means than this dashing scribble 
in prosaic English, I'm going to send a water color done by one 
of the Neapolitan artists of just such a tucked-away, mystery- 



228 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

filled little by-way as we were sauntering through this morning. 
Ecco! the flower stalls near the base, brilliant with gorgeous 
mass of roses, daffodils and violets and flinging their incense 
straight up into blue heavens. Eccoci! the charcoal brazier 
where great luscious chestnuts are roasting six for soldo, and 
really warm one's fingers as well as a game of mora. And just 
across the way, shrine of Madonna before whom the little lamp 
of love will burn each night, though Camorristi may plot in 
some secret chamber just above. Eccolo! the group of ragaz- 
zini in gay and ragged frocks, tooting their horns with all the 
spirit of Fra Angelico's angiolini, just as Neapolitan boys blow 
their horns at Epiphany, whether from sheer Neapolitan love of 
noise or w^hether from sense of religious duty to announce once 
again to the world the Flight into Egypt — chi saf Yet 
tumult of their tooting is no doubt almost drowned by the bold 
braying of that little panniered donkey buried in lettuces and 
greens, and the crying and calling of the debonair venditore 
by his side who sings out in voice which that god Caruso might 
envy, that his greens are greenest of all bell' Napoli, and he 
himself prince of all venditori and never yet has he cheated 
signora — fact which he calls upon all saints iit cielo to wit- 
ness in such strident tones that, as you may see for yourself, a 
buxom donna in sun-mellowed red skirt and shawl of Naples 
yellow is out there on the balcony hung four stories high in air, 
screaming down in animated bargaining and letting down by 
long string, the basket with probably due soldi in the bottom 
which in another moment will be extracted and the basket drawn 
up deftly into the sky, overflowing with green insalata. Voyez! 
the pots of carnations and the long strings of red peppers. The 
multi-patched garments flapping in the all-searching Sirocco 
which somehow finds its way into the tiniest, most tortuous of 
Neapolitan streets, though with no such baneful breath as it 
blows on us of Parco Margherita. The cart of Capri oranges, 
small yet so luscious and tinted like the burnished copper, and. if 
it please you, you may have six for a soldo — any six you please, 
though it would be better you did not stop too long in the 
selecting but darted in that doorway under all those queer old 
cheeses hung up in bladders, for that flock of nimble glassy- 
eyed goats tripping down the stairs will surely demand right 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 229 

of way — and take it too ! And yet all this^ cava mia, is but 
one of many hundred by-ways where picturesque is as dense as 
the shadows and thousands of smiling brown eyes are waiting 
to welcome you. 

But art and picturesque do not appeal to all it seems. I've 
been scribbling here in one of the downstairs salons and F. 
who is waitings has just been recommending the Ahruzzi to a 
poor art-wearied American who has been dragged all day by 
ambitious wife and daughter through museum and divers 
churches and was bewailing the fact that if art made one as 
footsore as this^ he hoped they'd soon be out of Italy ! F. is 
not sure whether the man believes the Ahruzzi to be a footease 
in the form of talcum powder to sift in the boots or just what! 
Thought it best not to inquire^ but boldly nodded acquiesce 
when the American having written the word carefully in his 
note book — after F.'s having spelled it for the third time — 
murmured wearily^ " 'Spose I can find it at the English drug 
store^ can't I ? — Many thanks I'm sure ! " and allowed himself 
to be dragged away once again by the very ambitious daughter 
who without grain of pity for her footsore father desired to 
be taken out to visit a Neapolitan cafe-cliantant. " Don't you 
care for the caffee-chontong? " she demanded of F.^ who pic- 
turing the countenance of that most dignified German proprietor 
of the Anglo-American pharraiacy and his solemn-eyed young Ital- 
ian clerk on being asked for the Ahruzzi, smiled at her radiantly, 
assuring her warmly that he adored them. And really it would 
be worth almost an hour of Neapolitan sunshine to see the con- 
sternation when that American rushes into the pharmacy to- 
morrow and demands the Ahruzzi I No doubt he'll be much dis- 
gusted, for he will be even more footsore and art-wearied by to- 
morrow, and will perhaps remember that wicked little smile 
which F. endeavored in vain to hide. Though the prescription 
given in such good faith is the best on earth, 'tis said, for those 
who are weary of the art of galleries and churches, but still 
choose to linger under Italian sky. For in the depths of the 
Ahruzzi, though one is almost at Rome's door, one has blue sky 
and gold sun of the South, superb scenery, glorious air and 
may study to heart's content the peasant people, who judging 
from Michetti's Ahruzzesi subjects are true idylls of the south. 



230 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

— yet in it all you'll find no art ! But this is prescription I need 
not pass on to you for when you come and have grown weary 
of churches and galleries, you shall plunge with me into the 
depths of these mysterious by-ways, so brimful of picturesque 
that you will love Naples far, far too well, e\^r to sigh for 
Ahruzzi. 



" . . . Itali/j the land where every moment of the day is 
lived, where centuries are spanned and you live with the heroes 
of your childhood and youth; the land of dreams and disillu- 
sions and again of dreams.** 

*' Home Life in Italy '* — Lina Duff Gordon 

4, 4, 



TO G. 

Naples, February — 

MARIA and I were driving when a rain came up this morn- 
ing so we ran in the Museum for shelter — what better 
place, indeed? And while wandering through the great halls 
overflowing with their rare treasures, she pointed out this and 
that of rare beauty which I might never have noticed had I 
come to the Museum every day for months ! There must be 
something seriously lacking in us Americans. Those who call 
us a well-rounded out people should but see us among these 
Italians ! 

Love and appreciation of the beautiful is so universal among 
all classes here, it places rich and poor on common footing, 
banishing in many respects the great inequalities wealth makes 
in other lands. All are musicians and all are poets ! Jules 
Janin says, you remember, " To say an Italian poet is needless 
— say an Italian and the poet is matter of course." While 
class distinctions are very marked here, as in all Latin lands, 
yet there is no such snobbishness as is found in England and 
other European countries. The common love all Italians have 
in the Arts, seems to make them all aristocrats; yet at same 
time, brings those who dwell in hovels and those who live in 
palaces, together on sort of democratic basis. 

We were just about to leave when one of the custodians came 

up, mysteriously beckoning us into a little ante-chamber. The 

custodians in the Museum here are as anxious that you see all 

the treasures as though they belonged to them themselves, rather 

than to the Government — at least they are all perfectly splendid 

231 



232 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

to me and you know, too, they are not allowed to accept fees. 
Yet I probably owe this attention of this morning to fact that 
Maria was along. Her gracious Tuscan manners and Beatrice 
Cenci eyes have doubtless won me many a favor. 

The little chamber held only one picture, some Museum 
officials and two Carabinieri who saluted me gallantly. I have a 
tremendous respect for this body of men and Maria herself 
has quite lost her heart to one of the two splendid fellows who 
promenade regularly by the hotel. 

The picture was a beautiful Nativity of the Flemish school — 
its artist uncertain — and had been brought into the ante-cham- 
ber to have the frame changed since the whole gallery is being 
renovated and rearranged this winter. Something in it reminded 
me much of a Diirer we once saw in Vienna and still another 
in Paris. I was frank enough to say so to the custodian; but 
he quickly exclaimed, " Ah, but no, mademoiselle, there is not 
the Diirer hair ! " And guessing that such fine points as hairs 
in art were not often included in ordinary education of Ameri- 
can girls, he kindly explained that Diirer's hair painting has 
marvelous delicacy quite its own. 

Mr. T. has been in this evening and says the old custodian 
was quite correct. That Diirer's hair painting was a wonderful 
point and is even to-day marvel of artists. He told us the 
story of Bellini — a great friend of the German, who once 
begged a favor of Diirer. One of the brushes with which 
Diirer drew hairs. Diirer immediately handed over several 
brushes exactly like those used by Bellini himself. " Oh, no, 
I mean the brushes with which you paint several hairs at one 
stroke ! " the Venetian quickly exclaimed. And at this Diirer 
picked up one of the ordinary brushes and drew before eyes 
of the astounded Bellini the wavy, delicate tresses of a girl. 

I joined mamma and Mrs. W. later for dejeuner at Gambrinus. 
We have been lunching down town rather often lately — here 
and there, but generally at Gambrinus, a charming cafe- 
ristorante with true Italian cuisine. We have a table near one 
of the large windows looking out the Chiaia, which meets the 
famous Via Toledo here at Gambrinus corner. And like the 
Toledo the Chiaia is ever filled with people and carriages — 
priests in black gowns and friars in brown, dashing Bersaglieri 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 233 

and splendid officers, flower vendors and vendors of amulets 
against Evil Eye, Neapolitan men with sticks and monocles 
standing around to admire the women just as our American men 
so often at home; and of course hundreds of tourists, German, 
English and American, all dashing here and there in mad rush 
to see Naples in a day ! 

To-day, a long funeral procession passed, attended by priests 
and some Confraternita. These latter march in nearly all the 
funerals here, gowned in flowing white robes, enveloping the 
whole person and giving a most ghostly effect. Even the face 
is concealed and there are but slits for eyes and for breathing. 
Tout ensemble they have frightful appearance — especially if 
the funeral be at night as often occurs here. They really look 
more as though they might belong to some circus parade rather 
than to the religious. Indeed someone has said these Neapoli- 
ton funerals would frighten a war-horse, and if each Neapolitan 
must have more or less of this weird spectacular effect at their 
funeral, it is not to be wondered at that our gargon should mur- 
mur as this long procession of to-day passed our window, — 
"Salute a noi! " That is, "Health to ourselves!" 

There are always many large floral pieces carried in the 
funerals here. These often, five, six and even seven feet in 
height and mottoes printed on black ribbon arranged across 
thena. The great profusion of flowers in this semi-tropical 
clime doubtless accounts for the large scale of which these wreaths 
and designs are made. 

Among better classes not even the nearest relatives attend the 
funeral but send their carriages — often there are dozens of 
empty turnouts following the hearse. And immediately after 
death in a family the relatives go into the country to spend at 
least a week and then upon their return Mass for the Dead is 
celebrated to which all friends of the family are invited. 

We spent the afternoon in driving here and there with Mrs. 
W. She sails to-morrow for New York and had countless things 
to attend to — from buying a certain post card view of Vesuvius, 
to ordering a bronze Mercury. We made the corso on both 
Toledo and Via Caracciolo as there was music in the Villa this 
afternoon; then later had tea in the pretty little Galleria Vit- 
toria, the lovely Duchessa d'Aosta being there to-day. She is 



234 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

much admired by these Neapolitans since she has all the aris- 
tocratic elegance these people so love — the elegance belonging 
to her own House of Orleans and to her husband's position as 
cousin to the King. 

Mrs. W. is quite unhappy over leaving — says those lines of 
Monti,, 

" Bella Italia! amate sponde! 
Pur vi torno, a rivederf '* 
(Beauteous Italy! beloved ever! 
Shall I behold thy shore again .^) 

sing through her continually. There is sweet charm about Italy 
which entwines itself 'round hearts of all who have time to love 
her. This^ with the subtle spell which the Siren of Naples 
flings over one — the very thought of leaving stabs one's heart. 
It was Goethe, wasn't it? who said he truly suffered at even 
mention of Italy or anything Italian — so intense his love for 
her — love which at last conquered over all and he j ourneyed 
once again to bask under her sun. 

We held our letters of last night over until to-day in hope of 
hearing from you. But niente! and mamma bids me warn you 
each time you disappoint her, she seeks solace in buying bronzes. 
They have always had wonderful charm for her you know, and 
here among all these Pompeiian masterpieces, she grows truly 
reckless ! This morning an exquisite Venus of Capua and a 
darling Cupid Asleep were added to our rapidly growing collec- 
tion in spite all my remonstrances. But both are copies of 
pieces we have especially admired in the Museum and we have 
had them sent up for our salon here in the hotel. Maria, not 
knowing that when we leave Naples, all the bronzes are to be 
returned to their various shops, from where they will be sent 
direct to America, lifted her graceful shoulders in a shrug of 
interrogation as she saw these latest acquisitions. *' Ecco! but 
madama will need commission an entire train to convey us and 
all the belongings to Rome ! " — sweeping her hands in eloquent 
gestures over Mercury Resting and Boy Extracting a Thorn, 
Bearded Bacchus and Narcissus. 

Such a discussion! No — nothing about latest Paris gowns 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 235 

or chapeauj;; but about Law of the Papal Guarantee ! I see 
your eyes smiling as you wonder what on earth I happen to 
know about that. Yet to be sure I do and F. is looking at me 
very respectfully this very moment. In fact he often tells me 
I quite astonish him with the vast amount of knowledge I have 
somehow acquired within the last year ! 

F. and M. came up to dinner to-night — you know M. is here 
for a week or two and supposedly staying at his hotel since she 
and her governess always stop there. In reality though we keep 
her here with us and allow Fraulein S., the governess_, to stay 
at the Grand with the baggage. M. was out with mamma and 
Padre Francesco this morning among the hospitals, and has been 
quite wretched over the poverty they came in contact with. 
She longs to start another charity hospital for Naples, a kin- 
dergarten for some of these cunning, brown-eyed bambinini and 
Heaven knoweth how many other institutions ! If only her 
allowance were as large as her heart or she had all the money 
now which will one day be hers, how Padre Francesco might 
be rejoiced! 

Our discussion started with F.'s remarking that nothing much 
less than the debt due the Holy See could wipe out the poverty 
of Italy. Of course you remember about the Guarantee made 
between the Church and State — in 1871 — a perpetual annuity 
of about six hundred thousand dollars being guaranteed the 
Pope. This has been placed to the credit of the Holy See each 
year, though each of the three Popes who have since reigned, 
has of course steadfastly declined to touch it, refusing as they 
must to recognize the Italian Government. So, although at 
death of each Pope, the annuities revert to the Italian Govern- 
ment, there has been altogether almost twenty-five million dollars 
unclaimed. No wonder M.'s eyes grew large, since twenty-five 
million should mean all Italy well educated, clothed and fed. 
But she is such a staunch little Protestant we couldn't make her 
understand what accepting these annuities would mean to the 
Church, she boldly declaring she should suggest it to-morrow to 
Padre Francesco and have him lay the matter before his uncle 
the Archbishop ! (who, by the way, 'tis said, is to be given a red 
hat at the next consistory). But we begged her to have pity 
on these poor people already so sorely taxed, since the six hun- 



2S6 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

dred thousand per year is not credited in cash to the Holy See, 
but entered as part the Public Debt and the extra taxation 
necessary to meet this accumulation would be terrifying and of 
course fall on these very same people whom M. is longing to 
help. 

We are going to hear II Trovatore again to-morrow night. 
F. has just been telling us of how Verdi outwitted the King — 
Victor Emmanuel II. The opera, II Trovatore, as first written 
was intended, you know, as political reflection against the King, 
who incensed, not only forbid its presentation, but ordered 
Verdi's name should not be seen or heard, written or printed 
throughout the entire Italian kingdom! But nevertheless not 
long after, large bills were boldly placarded in public places, 
containing V E R D I in great letters. He was promptly arrested 
and brought before the court, where to surprise of the King 
he begged to inform the court the word held the initials of 
Victor Emmanuel Rex De Italia ! and upon proving that all 
reflective language had been removed from the new opera, he 
was quicklj^ released. This, the same Verdi whose music is to- 
day the joy of all Italy and listened to by royalty and small 
ragazzi of the streets with equal delight. 



'' This is how one lives in Italy, sauntering, talking, idling and 
dreaming, always in the open air, always among the flowers, al- 
ways finding the people ready to lean their arms on an old wall 
and exchange some good humored chit-chat." 



-" OUIDA 



4? •*• 



TO M. 

Naples, Feb. — 

WE went early this morning with Mr. T. to see a beautiful 
old picture of which we were speaking last night — noth- 
ing less than a Holy Family by Andrea del Sarto. Mr. T. thinks 
it undoubtedly genuine and he is surely a connoisseur. Its won- 
derful shading recalled another Madonna of this famous artist 
we once saw in the Louvre — more perfect work than this per- 
haps. But no Madonna, or Holy Family, however famous, 
hanging in strong garish light of gallery walls, can ever be so 
sweetly beautiful as these pictures, tucked reverently away in 
time-darkened churches where the sunlight steals in only for few 
moments each day to touch them with tawny light. This rare 
old Holy Family we saw this morning hangs in Church of San 
Giacomo off Piazza Municipio — erected by Don Pedro de 
Toledo, the Spanish viceroy who built this famous old street 
still called after him though its name has been changed to Via 
Roma now for quarter of a century. 

There was time to waste before Mr. T.*s steamer sailed for 
Capri and sauntering over to CastelV Ovo, we stopped at the 
Royal Palace. Though it was not the day for visitors, we 
easily succeeded in coaxing the scarlet-liveried old major-domo 
to let us go out on the garden terrace of the palazzo overlook- 
ing the Arsenal. Early this morning I spied an Italian man- 
of-war, drab and stealthy, slipping into the harbor. It looked 
for all the world like Ettore Fieramosca, that man-of-war with 
the captivating officers which the Italian Government sent to New 
York last fall, you remember, for unveiling of the statue to 
Verdi. But to my disappointment we could see nothing of that 

237 



2S8 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

brave Fieramosca and learned it was but man-of-war from 
Spezia which I saw. 

This Royal Palace terrace has charming sweep of the entire 
harbor with its mass of shipcraft riding the calm blue water. 
And 'twas from this same garden terrace^ no doubt, that Lady 
Hamilton and her adorable Queen Maria Carolina, watched the 
arrival of the much hoped for English man-of-war sailing into 
Neapolitan waters, bringing for the first time into this alluring 
Bay of Napoli, Captain Nelson — a much honored guest, since 
Maria Carolina, with Maria Antionette, even then in shadow 
of the scaffold, well knew that the much needed succor for both 
her sister and her own sunny kingdom of Naples, lay in hands 
of the English. And so it was in this same Royal Palace of 
Naples that Nelson, as yet the unrecognized hero and far from 
a handsome man (although 'tis true he then possessed two ej'^es 
and both arms!), was first royally feted, being granted three 
audiences in four successive days and honored with a grand 
dinner at which he sat at the King's right hand. All this of 
course from Maria Carolina's motives of policy, but doubtless 
homage very sweet to the vain Nelson, who, ambitious and be- 
lieving firmly in himself, is said to have frankly declared at 
this time — " If I live I will be at the top of the tree ! " And 
it must have seemed that ** top of the tree " had been at last 
reached, when five years later, just after that great Battle of 
the Nile, Nelson sailed once again into azure waters of the bay 
of Napoli — received with honors befitting royalty. We, bask- 
ing out on the royal palace terrace this morning, tried to pic- 
ture his glorious reception and the gala scene these waters 
must have presented that glad day. The royal barge with the 
King and court musicians leading the procession which rowed 
out to meet the conqueror. Close behind, the gayly decked 
barge of Sir William and the charming Lady Hamilton. Lady 
Hamilton wearing, perhaps, her favorite costume of white muslin 
gown with blue sash — blue as the water over which she rode 
to greet her hero Nelson. All the watercraft of Naples was out 
that gala day. And on the shore waited the laszaroni and all 
those too poor to hire even a leaky barchette — the same pic- 
turesque poor such as we see here now, a century gone by, 
though the fair Lady Hamilton with her white gowns and blue 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING SS9 

sash and long curls falling down to her heels^ lives only in her 
pictures. 

But the humble poor of Napoli have been little changed by 
century and over, and we have been sauntering among them 
this morning, climbing up the stair-streets; for all Napoli, you 
know, is ascent or descent and has form of a gigantic amphi- 
theater of which the arena is this sparkling bay. These won- 
derful little stair-streets, climbing up, up — up, seemingly, 
into the very turquoise sky itself — are full, overflowing, with 
picturesque. 

Mr. T. having sailed (like the Tiberio of history) for his 
Capri villa, on the panting little vapor etta from CastelV Ovo, 
we wandered over in the gardens and met a certain Miss B. 
from our hotel. She was aimlessly turning pages of her scar- 
let Baedeker and confessed she had seen all show places of 
Naples yet was wild to prowl through some of the 
vicoli, and was afraid to explore them alone. Perfectly absurd! 
One is far safer in them, even in vicoli known as very hot bed 
of Camorra, than on the densely crowded Toledo and other 
prominent streets. We pointed out a little passageway which 
leads up from the Villa, joined further up by smaller and still 
narrower stairways ascending to Vomero — the highest quarter 
of the city — offering ourselves as guides. Miss B. was much 
delighted, quickly accepting us as able protectresses, though in 
truth she would almost make two of us. 

This arco through which we started on our upward climb is 
not to be compared in perfect picturesque with many other 
Neapolitan streets, yet to Miss B. it was filled vrith continual 
surprise and she thought everything '* perfectly chamming ** — 
a VAnglaise, you know. Up, up! — across Rione Amedeo and 
the Corso Vittorio Emanuele where the tiny, tortuous stairways 
led at last, to Miss B.'s bewilderment, directly into the old 
courtyard of a decrepit palazzo where gossipy women in twin- 
kling ear-rings stopped their chatter to call a gracious '' Bumi 
giorno!" and dirty, cunning himhi stared at our invasion with 
their pathetic, solemn brown eyes. Ah, these stair-streets of 
Napoli! Would Dante have cried " How hard is the going up 
and down other people's stairs!" had he known the joys of 
this Napoli in his exile? 



240 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

During our climb we Avere much amused. A ragazzo came 
along on his way to an oven with large ring loaves of bread 
on long board neatly balanced on his head — the bread here, 
it seems, is made up in one place and carried, all exposed 
through the streets, to an oven where 'tis baked. But as this 
sun-bronzed young Mercury moved to the side of the narrow 
way for us, a woman, busily housecleaning from all appear- 
ances (though I doubt strongly if such strenuous course as 
housecleaning is ever pursued in this dolce far niente Napoli) 
— swept with great vigor from her balcony, a cloud of dust 
with some withered flowers which fell, covering the bread as 
if with an icing — the poor dead carnations sticking in the 
dough in odd decoration. The raga&zo, assiduously whistling 
the Marcia Reale, was as unconscious as the energetic signora 
above, of any disaster. Seeing our mirth, he gave us a debonair 
smile and " Buon giorno! " and passed innocently on his oven- 
headed way, piping his Royal March. Chi sa but that we shall 
eat some of that very bread.'' Miss B. felt relieved, after view- 
ing the catastrophe, to know she herself is to sail to-morrow 
for Genoa — quite out of reach of that deadly bread. For 
though the gay young god of an errand boy may receive a 
sound berating for the calamity for which not he, but signora, 
was to blame (or rather we ourselves, since forsooth, three 
women are quite sufficient to blockade one of these passage- 
way streets), I know full well there is no bake-shop in all this 
whole adorable city of NapoU which would for moment contem- 
plate the terrible extravagance of casting away that bread! 
But how much better to run risk of eating it in some delectable 
form — artichokes or cauliflower au gratin with liberal sprin- 
kling of those same deadly bread crumbs, for instance — rather 
than to sail away from this sunny Napoli as Miss B. 

We, it seemed, appeared this morning in the Villa at just 
the proper moment, since otherwise. Miss B. would probably 
have left this bewitching Naples knowing nothing of the by- 
ways full of their vivid life and color — by-ways on which 
Madonna ever smiles dovm from her shrines. The idea that 
Miss B. with her six feet and much good English muscle dared 
not explore these vicoli and salite in which the smiling gracious 
people looked upon her with a sort of awe, as they might some 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 241 

mighty Diana was truly laughable and Miss B. herself saw 
folly of her timidity^ though she has little sympathy with these 
humble brown-eyed people and is ever imagining some evil. 

We stopped on the outskirts of Vomero to buy flowers in one 
of those enticing florists' gardens and as we sat under the 
umbrella pine near the gate, several of the women working in 
the garden, collected around us — doubtless filled with foolish 
admiration and envy for the three beautiful foreigners as they 
termed us. Yet Miss B. thought them bold and when one, with 
whom I was talking, came nearer to look at my gold beads, 
touching them as gracefully as that vestal virgin, Tarpeia, 
doubtlessly touched the golden circlet on Tatius' arm, graciously 
telling me how lovely they were. Miss B. grew excited — was 
sure the girl meant to snatch them. What her amazement as 
I calmly unfastened and gave them to the girl to examine! 
They were handed about among the women as carefully as 
though they had been a rope of pearls — though doubtless Miss 
B. (antipatica creature !) expected to see someone dash off 
with them. 

The views from Vomero are wonderfully extensive. 'Tis a 
marvelous place for sketching — up there on the Vomero hill- 
side under some great Neapolitan unbrella pine. At one's feet 
are the enchanting gardens and in the branches overhead the 
nightingales have sung for — who knows? Since the days of 
Parthenope perhaps. In the distance, vessels come riding 
through the ultramarine water of the bay, like birds skimming 
through blue sky. For which is the bluer, this Bay of Napoli 
or the Neapolitan sky, no man is wise enough to say. 

Later. 
As usual we have spent this afternoon in the corso in happy- 
do-nothingism and later drove over to the old Domenican mon- 
astery for F. Don't imagine though, that F. is consulting 
frati or contemplating cloistered life — not just yet! San 
Domenico Monastery has long been converted into odious office 
building and F. was only in secret confabulation with very 
worldly looking individual who wore a monocle carefully 
screwed in his eye and large diamonds on cravat and finger. 
What, I wonder, would blessed St. Thomas Aquinas, who once 



242 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

stayed here, say, could he look in on the old monastery as it 
stands to-day? 

We waited for F. out where, long ago, the handsome mon- 
astery gardens were tended by brothers in cowl and gown. It 
was here in San DoTnenico that Giordano Bruno — not yet the 
renegade — often walked in the gardens, debating with brother 
monks, on deep dogmas of Trinity and Transubstantiation, or 
sat in some secluded arbor pondering himself on these great 
questions, sadly mixing his religious disbelief with philosophi- 
cal skepticism. And then, restless, and filled with skepticism 
and insatiable eagerness for searching divine mysteries, it was 
from these same sweet cloisters of San Domenico that Bruno 
fled Naples and the sunny Southern skies under which he was 
born — never to return. 

We finally succeeded in carrying F. off for gouter — quite 
impatient with him for discussing stocks and bonds in the same 
room in which, perhaps, the holy St. Thomas often sat studying 
or writing his famous tracts. We dined later at F.'s hotel 
and have spent this evening at a circus on Monte di Dio — ex- 
tremely clever, though perhaps it will strike you rather shock- 
ing that buffoons and clowns should be allowed to perform on 
the Mountain of God! Ah, well, we are in Napolil 

To-morrow we are to sail over to Ischia for a day or two 
— " taking the cure." Though this is not at all the proper 
season and F. declares it truly unreasonable of mammina to 
think she needs Ischian waters here in February. Such state 
of affairs is quite unheard of, it seems, and to be correct one 
must go to Ischia only between May and September. But may 
the gods be propitious and bid the giant Typho'eus rest quietly 
till we are safely back in Naples. For according to Messer 
Virgil, — that learned one who had all the lore of this mysteri- 
ous land at his fingers' end, — Ischia, at command of Jupiter, 
lies an enchanted island upon the monster Typho'eus who, 
rebellious at the crushing weight, writhes in agony, groaning 
and shaking the earth in attempt to cast off the jewel island 
which holds him a prisoner — a prisoner, spite his heroic 
attempts to free himself in 1883. We are to make early start, 
so huon' riposOy carina mio! 



" They have suffered so much, — these 'people, and yet 
through all they have kept their hold on so much; for they have 
kept the smile in their eyes, and they have kept the grace in 
their limbs, and they have kept the poetry in their hearts." 

—" OUIDA " 



TO G. 

» 

Naples^ February — 

WE had tea yesterday with Mrs. B. and H. who are now 
herCj and no matter how many delightful new friends 
one makes, there is nothing better you know than seeing people 
from one's own city. H. and I have been out driving this 
afternoon — quite alone though of course Italian girls would 
never dream of such a mad thing. It's permissible to the Ameri- 
can exceedingly plain in looks, somber in dress, nun-like in be- 
havior. Never leave the carriage and remember some 
dozen other equally important rules ! We, I think, must have 
broken most of these — at least in the eyes of Neapolitan dow- 
agers and I as a resident, have doubtless lost reputation irrepa- 
rably. Nevertheless we had a splendid afternoon and it 
seemed quite glorious to me to be out for once without duenna 
tagging. H. knew nothing of this delicious Neapolitan gelato, 
so what more natural than that we go into Gambrinus ? — his 
is undoubtedly the best. The aristocratic hea.d-ga?'gon who has 
always seen me with mamma or madame, was solemnly amazed 
as we strolled in, though his savoir-faire, which Italians possess 
in far greater degree than the French, did not desert him even 
at this appalling sight of two jeunes filles unchaperoned. We 
always have a table near a window on the Chiaia where one 
may see — and of course be seen by tout le monde, but this 
afternoon the gargon delicately led way to opposite side of 
the cafe — side on which there is no passing whatever ! — little 
dreaming I was fully aware we were breaking one of the strict- 
est rules of Neapolitan society. 

243 



244 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 



I 



As chance would have it however, Marchese T. came by this 
very window — almost halted with amazement as he spied us 
sitting inside chatting over our gelati so innocently. So natural 
did it seem that I should be alone with a girl friend, that for 
moment I forgot we were in decorous Old-World Naples and 
half expected Marchese T. would enter and join us. But of 
course that is quite out of question here and would be a thou- 
sand-fold worse than even two jeunes files entering cafe alone! 

Even for an Italian to drive with a girl and her mother here 
is equivalent to announcing an engagement you must know, and 
doubtless I've been affianced by gossip to at least a dozen par- 
ties. But happily an American girl is allowed all sorts of 
privileges — even to engaging herself, one day to . dashing 
young lieutenant of the cavalry, another day to a well known 
young Due, or again to Conte or Marchese or even to humble 
non- titled Signore! 

Indeed yes, we do know something of that cactus fruit which 
you say Mr. Burbank is about to introduce through the United 
States, for here it is much thought of — by American residents 
it seems as well as by Italians. When we first reached Naples, 
we often wondered what the pink, reddish-yellow fruits so pic- 
turesquely displayed — certainly some fruit altogether outside 
our American experience. Cabmen and ragazzini were forever 
eating them with gusto. But one day as we were strolling 
along Via del Mille where many of these fruit vendors make 
gay splashes of color, the vendor so loudly extolled beauty and 
delicate flavor of his terra-cotta fruit, it seemed almost proof 
it might please fastidious American palates as well as Neapoli- 
tan. For cinque soldi, we had ten of the fruit — we buying 
them unpared though at slight increase in price one may have 
them pared with the vendor's own pocket knife! This, the 
way street gamins prefer, since luxury of knife is not always 
theirs and fact the fruit has been much handled by the pictur- 
esque vendor is of course matter of small concern to Neapoli- 
tan ragazzi. 

And since then it has vied for favor on our table with oranges 
and mandarins. There is flavor something like bananas — a 
fruit of which, by the way, we have seen but one bunch since 
coming to Naples ! But cactus fruit is by no means a luxury. 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 245 

They grow wild in the rich lava soil around here, and indeed 
are so common one never finds them served in table d'hote. 
The stewards disdain to place anything so commonplace before 
their guests, but did they only know how delicious many Ameri- 
cans, like ourselves, have found this fruit, they would doubtless 
banish false pride and boldly set it forth. Indeed Neapolitans 
tell us they often consider this cactus fruit as tempting as 
oranges and that it makes delicious marmalade highly prized 
for one of the feste. And if the great wizard Burbank is 
propagator, Americans will doubtless soon be eating cactus 
fruit, cactus preserves and cactus syrup — all a I'italienne, But 
— chi sa? it may not taste so well in America, since there one 
would not always have opportunity of buying it, with much 
bargaining, gesticulation and exclamation from debonair 
Neapolitan venditore. 

February ISth, Ash Wednesday. 

This morning among the churches — first to our own, then 
to San Francesco di Paola where there was beautiful service 
attended by many of the nobili of Napoli. We were with 
Duca G. and coming out met Padre Francesco and walked up 
through the Vicoli di Santa Lucia with him. These are the tiny 
tortuous streets ofi" Santa Lucia, cutting through the old decrepit 
buildings which have been standing, heaven alone knows how 
long! Some portions of the picturesque old Santa Lucia were 
torn down after the great cholera siege, in 1884, but there 
are many of the old buildings left in which dozens of poor 
families are huddled with little fresh air — much less sunshine. 
"God forbid that cholera visit Naples again; but after all, it 
may be the quickest way to tear out these death-traps ! " Padre 
Francesco has said to us and we who from the streets see only 
their picturesque qualities — balconies festooned with every- 
thing under the gold sun, can have no idea of the awful condi- 
tion in which people live inside. 

These Vicoli of Santa Lucia are known as one of the worst 
quarters in all Naples — hot bed of mala vita napolitana. 
Here plans are formed and carried out by Camorristi and their 
Picciotti. Yet one finds it almost impossible to realize any- 
thing of this Camorra — awe-inspiring word — for as one moves 
among the people one sees few who are not gracious and smil- 



246 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 



1 



ing. Padre Francesco never allows us to give anything to 
those who beg while we are with him — we would have a clam- 
oring procession a mile in length he says ! Of course he is 
quite rights though it often hurts one to refuse, and they, though 
they must know how simple it would be for us to give, are ever 
gracious and declare they will " wait for Padre Francesco to 
come to-morrow ! " — that dear domani by which these poveri 
live. They all adore him and the dirtiest bambini run and 
cling to his hand, since it is Padre Francesco who brings cheer 
and hope to many of these poor of Santa Lucia where tourists see 
the picturesque rather than the heart-stabbing pathetic. 

As we passed through the picturesque little streets this morn- 
ing, we met two Reali Carabinieri and as Father Francis stood 
talking with them, Duca G. asked us to notice the fellow on the 
right — a handsome fellow with a scar. 'Tis said be is marked 
man among the Camorra since he has caused arrest and deten- 
tion of some of their prominent members and ferreted out, at 
risk of his life, several important details of the great Cuocolo 
murder which took place here last June. This, an affair which 
has puzzled all Naples and though it is known Camorra is at 
root of it, the true criminals have not yet been convicted. So 
powerful Camorristi and so binding their omerta — code of 
silence. This young Carabiniere has been begged by his friends 
to enter a cloister and become a monk since they believe only 
that will ever save him from the edict of death which Camorra 
has without doubt passed upon him. Yet he, although he well 
knows his every movement is shadowed, declares he will never 
for a moment think of monastic life until Camorra is stamped 
out of Italy. Heaven knows when that will be ! Not many 
years from now Duca G. says, if all were as brave as this noble 
Carabiniere. 

But Camorra, pronouncing its death sentence on people of all 
classes and all lands, is a something one cannot at all associate 
with this Naples of laughing sky, superlative picturesque and 
kindly people among whom we love to loiter. This sapphire 
sky, warm sunshine and dancing Tyrrhenian are sufficient to 
outweigh in hundred fold any black Camorra hanging over the 
land and the people bask in gold of the sun and laugh and 
sing in spite poverty and Camorristi. 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 247 

And though you who have not yet been touched by this spell 
which Parthenope the Siren has flung o'er us^ may find it hard 
to believe^ 'tis quite true there is no other people in the world 
so lovable in spite all their faults as these Italians. They've 
an irresistible charm peculiar to themselves — a charm we 
forestieri can never fathom^ so mysteriously contradictory is it. 
For they are light-hearted^ yet most sincere; vivacious^ yet of 
wondrous composure; simple^ yet never foolish; intimate, yet 
never familiar; gay, yet ever sad. And perhaps 'tis this pa- 
thetic sadness ever there under each smile and laugh which makes 
these people able to touch a chord in one's heart no other people 
is able to touch. 

Do you know, I wonder, that sweet story of how God spoke 
to four of His saints, bidding each make a nation? St. George 
fashioned the English, St. lago the Spaniards, St. Denis the 
French. Then St. Michael, profiting by errors made in creating 
these three nations, took a sunbeam, the heart of a little child, 
the sigh of a poet, the chords of a lute, the kiss of a lover, a 
string from an angel's golden harp, and a rose out the garden 
of Paradise. Ajid kneeling down, he prayed for one thing 
more to make his nation perfect. The smile of God. And God, 
loving San Michael very dearly, smiled. \\Tiereupon the saint, 
rejoicing, sent his creation down to earth calling it the Italian 
people. Yet as it fell, Satan, well knowing the exquisite beauty 
of Italia and fearing lest with St. Michael's creation there be 
a second Eden, quickly shot from Hell a poisoned arrow which 
pierced the rose plucked in Paradise and broke the string of 
the angel's lyre. It was this arrow shot from the gate of Hell 
which carried sin into Italy. 

Yet ever over the sin, reigns the smile of God — that smile 
the Italians hold in their eyes and in their hearts to this very 
day. A smile they have held in their hearts spite bitter poverty 
and suffering, just as they have held the Faith. For Socialism 
and Freemasonry, which finds its followers here and there 
among Young Italy's middle class, makes no appeal to these 
people who hold the smile of God within their hearts. They 
love the warmth, the comfort, and the hope of the Catholic 
Faith better perhaps than any people of the world. And though 
by proselyting Protestantism veneers here and there a soul, it 



248 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

is never for long and at heart there is ever the true Faith, too 
deeply rooted to be torn out by even that alluring glamour of 
freedom Protestantism holds out. And this, more than all else, 
may be the secret why these people have charm as has no other 
nation — these Italiani simpatici of dark eyes holding over sun- 
shine and shadow, the smile of God. 



lovely, lovely Italy, 

1 yield me to thy spell! 

Reach the guitar, my dearest friend, 
We*ll sing, ' Home! fare thee well! * 
world of work and noise. 
What spell hast thou for me? 
The siren Beauty charms me here 
Beyond the sea/* 



-W. W. Story 



* 4? 



TOM. 



Napoli, February — 

WE'VE just finished coffee here on our balcony, for over- 
night Spring has breathed with balmy breath on Naples 
and to-day blackbirds are crying out at top of their young lungs, 
according to old Italian tradition, " I fear thee no more, O Lord, 
now that winter is behind me ! " Dante himself refers to this 
old proverb in his Purgatory you know, and 'tis really true. 
For have we not seen and heard a blackbird raising bis voice 
to heaven this very morning? Fa bel tempo! 

Even I who seldom have eyes to see or ears to hear till after 
coffee, have this morning forgotten there was such a thing as 
I gazed down on the sun-inundated city, the indomitable Vesu^ 
vius, the omnipresent Tyrrhenian of ultramarine. But why at- 
tempt to describe — the pen is powerless. Che hella, hella 
Napoli! 

The subtle spell of indefinable magic which is Italy's own, 
seemed brooding o'er all this morning, and I stood there marvel- 
ing over the beauty and grandeur, quite heedless that Maria 
was serving coffee under my very nose. A hirrichino di strada 
of some sixteen years or so, passed underneath the balcony on 
way to the kitchens, calling up gayly, as he spied me, " Buon * 
giorno, hella signorina! " And I, in spite Maria's imprecations 

on head of the youth, boldly called down, *' Buon* giorno, amico 

249 



250 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

mio! " in return, for though I am of America and many years 
younger, I am far wiser than Maria and know 'tis only spell 
of Italy which makes thus these smiling people whom the Siren 
has called to live in her city by the sea. 

Later. 10 p. m. 

Your letter laid aside this morning for nothing more than 
prosaic fact my fountain pen rolled off the balcony into the 
garden. Of course I know you are sure to declare it only hap- 
pened because my thoughts were not on you, but out on the blue 
bay with the Sirens, so I'll not attempt an apology. Yet I'm 
truly sorry it missed the fast mail for which you will be looking. 
But what will you here in dolce far niente Napoli? 

I go down to look for the pen. It takes long search and aid 
of an old gardener. The pen appears at last calmly reposing 
well hidden by foliage in one of the great oleander tubs. The 
old gardener must explain that that is for surety very place 
where it should have fallen, he having by some deep philosophi- 
cal reasoning decided the tub to be plumb with my balcony. 
Then why had he not figured it out long ago and saved all the 
delay? I am about to ask, but he has already turned conversation 
to the oleanders themselves. The signorina saw they were be- 
ginning to decay — truly very little, yet surely it was decay. 
E vero! And did the signorina know that with decay of the 
oleanders, began also decay of the fortune of the house to 
which they belonged.^ Ah, but no! Che-e-e-e! But yes! 
The oleanders would be dead within a year — within a year the 
noble hotel — Dia Mio! 

A. arrives to interrupt this gossipy, gesticulative conversation 
and carry me off to her palace to pass judgment on a shortly 
finished piece of book-binding. She does the most wonderful 
work in this craft you can imagine. The book she wanted me 
to see to-day was a Dante's Paradiso for Cardinal B.'s fete-day. 
He is a great-uncle of hers and is to take us in charge, A. says, 
when we reach Rome. 

She had designed the covers and worked up an entirely orig- 
inal scheme of color — altogether simply marvelous. Of 
course I am mad to try something myself, but the manner in 
which A. manages the tiny tools is a trick it would take me a 
lifetime to catch. She tells me Queen Elena is wonderfully 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 251 

fond of book-binding too — has made it her hobby, sometimes 
binding state papers for the King for which she is paid as any 
ordinary workman, the money going to her charity work to 
which she is so devoted. 

We went down to the Villa later in the morning with A.'s 
duenna, finding m^mma basking in the sunshine, engaged in 
reading Leopardi's beautiful poem to Sylvia. Both mamma and 
I are fallen in love with Leopardi's pathetic poems and espe- 
cially does this one appeal to me, — addressed, you remember, to 
spirit of the giovanetta whom he had loved in his sad boyhood 
days at Recanati, where when studying in his father's great 
gloomy library, the cadence of Sylvia's perpetual singing often 
drew him to the window. A.'s duenna knew a great deal of the 
Ranieri. It was Conte Ranieri you know who was so affection- 
ately devoted to Leopardi here in Naples and perhaps brought 
into his life the only touches of happiness he ever knew. 

Before we came home we walked 'round through Santa Lucia 
and back of San Carlos to see — but I must first explain and 
tell you of a previous conversation so you'll fully appreciate. 

I was looking over some guide books the other evening here 
in our salon and happened to remark, ** I've seen Piazza Cavour 
and Piazza Garibaldi — where pray, is Piazza Mazzinif '* 

" Alas, Madlle. — Naples has none ! " Conte C. answered. 

" Alors, a Via Mazzini! " I returned. Yet again Conte C. 
answered there was none by that name. 

"How strange — when there is the elegant Corso Garibaldi! 
But there is at least statue to Mazzini here? " I asked. 

And again Conte C. was about to answer with a triste nega- 
tive when Duca G. who was running over some music at the 
piano, glanced up and quietly remarked, " But yes — Madlle! 
A statue to Mazzini — a splendid statue ! " 

Yet he would not tell me where — promising to show me him- 
self some day and this morning I reminded him of the promise. 
So we walked over by San Carlos and through the large gate 
surmounted by the splendid Russian horses and guarded by 
carabineers, into the garden at rear of the Royal palace. And 
stopping before a statue in the garden, Duca G. said with great 
ring of earnestness in his voice, " Ecco! Naples' statue to 
Mazzini ! " It was a beautiful statue of Italia intended to com- 



252 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

memorate the uprising of 1860 which added Naples to the 
kingdom of Victor Emmanuel, and the honor to Mazzini which 
Duca G. so gracefully implied would surely have rejoiced the 
spirit of United Italy's hero, who devoted his life to Italia. 
Yet died worse than in exile — stranger in his own land. But 
perhaps after all, Naples has not been unmindful of the memory 
of Mazzini, but has believed as does Duca G. that no statue or 
street or piazza, however splendid, could ever wipe out the in- 
gratitude and base dishonor to which he was subject. Yet who, 
in this rushing twentieth century, aside from Duca G., would 
ever think to point to a statue of Italia as symbolizing the life 
of Mazzini? who, though he died reviling the Church, is held 
high hero by many of this Italia Giovine. 

This afternoon we heard some wonderful music when mem'- 
bers of the Tartini family living here kept the annual commem- 
oration of the death of their eminent ancestor — Giuseppe Tar- 
tini, the violin virtuoso. We went in late but just in time to 
hear that wonderful Tartini sonata, " The Devil's Trill," given 
by a prominent Neapolitan violinist. 'Tis said you know, Tartini 
himself declared this famous sardonic trill mysteriously revealed 
to him by Satan. Why was it, in the old days that any wonder- 
ful power to wield the bow was so often attributed to his 
Satanic Majesty? Tradition, you know, says that Paganini, 
that great wizard of Geneo, also received his skill from the 
Evil One who stood ever at his elbow and controlled the bow. 
Duca G. says we should have heard the Tartini Miserere which 
was given this morning at the Mass celebrated for repose of 
the virtuoso's soul. He goes so far as to declare it the most 
wonderful Miserere ever written, and Duca G. is a splendid 
musician himself. But what Italian is not? 

Telegram telling of the happy consumymation of Tenente B.'s 
duel, played yesterday, interrupted your letter. How happy 
we all 'tis over! for duelling here, you must remember, is never 
the farce it has become in other countries. Best of all, he him- 
self was victor — though to be quite correct one must never 
speak here of a party winning or losing a duel. All the morn- 
ing journals hold lengthy accounts — lengthy, considering 
newspapers here must pay five centimes for each word received 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 253 

over telegraph. But this has been one of the great duels of 
the Italian year, calling two of Italy's prominent young officers 
home from American ports — one, alas, to these long months of 
imprisonment in that old fortress of Lago di Garda which 
Dante knew. But imprisonment in name only, and no very 
great hardship, judging from the letters written within those 
old walls. Yet the play of yesterday, with sabers and many 
strict technical points, makes one faint at heart, even though 
knowing dear, debonair Tenente B. is hero to-day of all Spezia 
and bears but one small scar. Oh, this duelling code of Italia! 
— as deeply rooted as the old mysteries and traditions. 



Deep orange groves hy Naples* shore. 
Warm slopes with laughing olives hoar. 
The myrtle by the bay: 
Bright florvers that in the thickets blow. 
Soft airs that melt the mountain snow. 
Showers weeping silver spray/* 

— John Addington Symonds 



TO J. 

Napoli, February — 

WE had promised to go through the Aquarium, of which 
you are forever making mention, with some English 
friends this very morning. And yet — che vuole? The moment 
I opened my windows I knew full well that pompous Aquarium 
with its bold front to the sapphirine bay would see nothing 
more to-day than my shadow as I strolled lazily through the 
Villa or perhaps made brave corso on the Caracciolo. Somehow 
it's always a domani for the Aquarium, for it's always too sun- 
shiny or too something here in this adorable Naples to take 
oneself inside the portals of that big white building filled with 
its wonderful marine animals. Yet, — chi sa domani? There'll 
probably be sunshine or some subtle something to prevent again. 
And if you ask me where else in the wide world there is such 
a splendid Aquarium, I will ask you where else but in Napoli 
is sunshine so superb, or fishermen of the bay so picturesque? 

And since you're apparently so concerned over malocopterygii 
and acanthopthery gians , why not coax that studious younger 
brother of yours into winning a Prix de Naples such as his 
University will give, the lucky winner being entitled, you know, 
to a whole year of browsing in this old Aquarium. Not that 
I would count it luck, you understand, to stroll around making 
notes and gazing at marine wonders day after day alongside a 
horde of rude Teutons. For if one is truly interested in view- 
ing sea-creatures they are to be found in far more picturesque 

254 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 255 

setting among these mysterious Neapolitan fish-markets and 
odorous little cooking stalls of the poveri. Yet lucky true is 
he who wins that prize^ for once he has carried it off and sailed 
away to these Italian shores, he miay bask to heart's content in 
the sunshine of this adorable old Napoli and will doubtless find 
such charm in prowling through shadowy by-ways and skimming 
over the sapphire sea with weather-beaten old fishermen who 
cast their nets and bring to land all the picturesque frutta di 
mare to feed this great swarming old city of the siren, that any- 
thing so very prosaic as an Aquarium as full of guttural 
Tedesci as of marine wonders, is sure to be looked upon as 
painful duty and postponed from day to day until somehow 
the whole prize year has glided away in dolce far niente. For 
there are other Aquariums but only one Napoli! 

And secretly your own Aquarium in New York suits me 
worlds better than this — inside and out too. Since inside one 
does not find the all-pervading German in as brave numbers 
as the marine collection itself, and as for exterior, Castle Gar- 
den is much older and picturesque than this garish young 
Aquario of Naples into which all tourists flock seemingly with 
some mad idea that there is only one Aquarium in the whole 
world, but hundreds of adorable cities of Napoli! 

And so the very moment I saw the great floods of sunshine 
— sunshine like Etruscan gold, pouring down on the city this 
morning, I knew it must for once again be a domani for the 
Aquarium and Maria and I were off early to Mass and saunter- 
ing in the Villa and chatting with the old gardeners before even 
any of those ambitious Tedesci who study in the Aquarium day 
after day, had appeared. Then later F. came in and we went 
down by the port where a great emigrant steamer was to sail at 
noon. 

Terrific tumult ! bustle ! confusion ! — perfect pandemonium. 
Multiply the most tremendous confusion you ever beheld at any 
Italian Line pier in New York an hour before sailing, by at 
least ten and you still have but faint idea of this Neapolitan 
port when an emigrant steamer is about to sail. For Naples, 
you know, is the world's greatest port of emigration, and here 
the emigrants go through yards and yards of red tape — far 
more than they must endure even at Ellis Island, though — 



256 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

poveri! they do not know and are in meek terror lest by some 
misfortune they will be debarred from the promised land where 
one reckons in dollars rather than lire. 

It makes tears come to one's eyes to see the tragedies which 
take place here on sailing days. Families about to be separated 
and clinging to one another in spite jostle and bustle among 
officers and vendors, sailors and people of a thousand sorts. 
Some old father, support of his family, turned down by officials 
on account of old age so the entire family must return to the 
little Sicilian village from which a week ago they had started for 
Naples and the New World. A girl come from Calabria to sail 
and join her lover in New York after three years' separation, 
debarred before our very eyes on account of trachoma — that 
curse of so many among Italian peasants. And even those who 
are allowed to sail have lost their gay debonair manners and 
are in more or less abject terror as to what lies in store before 
they are through the portals of that New World. And all seem 
more or less sad if one but observes, and as the great vessel 
finally begins to slide slowly, slowly away from these sirenic 
shores, each soul there in the steerage, lining the rails and wav- 
ing to friends on the shore seems to say to this adorable old 
Naples, just as that first Italian sailor who sailed for the New 
World said to his Geneo, " My body is here, but my heart 
always with you ! " And few are they who leave these sunny 
shores as real emigrants. Many follow the aristocratic plan 
of spending their winters in Italy, their summers in America. 
And if perchance through unkind Fate they must stay to swell 
the two million already there, their hearts at least, are sure to 
be back somewhere in sweet Italia. 

And yet while it is so truly touching to see hundreds and 
hundreds of these people leaving their sunshine and blue sky, 
their debonair manners crushed with apprehension over the long 
voyage and entrance into a strange land, still, like everything 
of this adorable old Parthenope, there is infinite picturesque as 
well. Peasants chattering volubly in many dialects and arrayed 
in various queer clothes and burdened with a thousand things 
— great mattresses and huge bundles of bedding and cooking 
utensils and flasks of wine and all sorts of cheeses weighing 
up to twenty pounds and more! and cans of olive oil, — that 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 257 

friend of the Italian peasant — and queer valises which bulge 
with heaven knoweth what ! Some peasants from a neighboring 
Campanian village had come into Naples bringing their entire 
household effects ! only to find at the last moment that it could 
not be taken on hord — not even the huge bed which the heart- 
broken donna had brought to her husband as dowry, and which, 
with chests and chairs and a great array of things had to be 
auctioned off at mere fraction of its value. One of the old 
chests was a quaint picturesque affair, its panels marvelously 
adorned in dazzling polychrome after the manner of those 
Sicilian carrette and showing in six scenes different miracles 
of Madonna — each daringly set forth in glowing color and a 
style surprising. I would loved to have had it and F. wanted 
to buy it, but the idea of adding a huge and gaudy chest to 
our already numerous effects struck mammina as de trop. I'm 
sorry now. Not that I so much wanted it for myself, but I 
might sometime have returned it to that poor signora who seemed 
to care even more for that than for the big dowry bed. She 
was so pathetic, with face like one of Vecchio's Madonnas, in 
spite the fact she was not very young and had a half dozen 
soulful-eyed children with her — six others in the Campo Santo. 
She told us all about them, while F. was endeavoring to advise 
the frantic husband how to dispose of the furniture to best 
advantage. If you weren't so madly rushed with your new book 
I would surely insist that you go down to Ellis Island and see 
if you could not do something to help them through. Her 
husband had the elegant name of Aristodemo and she was simply 
Annunziata. F. thinks I would love a Turk did they only hap- 
pen to be named Annunziata, but really I've noticed everyone 
of that name seems always to have face like some master's 
Madonna and is sure to be lovable. Though perhaps those six 
children who were left in some little Campanian Campo Santo 
made more appeal this morning than mere fact that signora her- 
self was an Annunziata. 

A domani. 
Mammina coaxed me off to Capodimonte with her, so as usual 
your letter in installments ! Mamma is all taken with the ex- 
quisite Capodimonte ware made in the famous old factory es- 
tablished here by that ambitious Carlo Bourbone. And it's 



258 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

really a great pity the works were ever closed, since all these 
treasures taken from Pompeii and Herculaneum are at hand in 
the Museum to be used as copies for wonderful decorations. 
Did you ever visit the Ginori works near Florence? All the 
famous Capodimonte molds went to them at suppression here 
and are turned out there to-day, though with no such exquisite 
coloring as the original Capodimonte boasts. Many of the old 
families here have splendid collections, though none so exten- 
sive as that to be found in the Palazzo Reale of Capodimonte 
which draws all old china lovers with the lure of the old Chelsea 
and Bristol of England. 

It's truly lovely out at Capodimonte. We stopped to make a 
promenade full length of the drive with its tunnel of wonderfully 
grown trees and only reached Naples in timie for a last turn 
in the corso. Then after dinner just as I thought to finish your 
letter — answer at least fifty of your hundred pertinent ques- 
tions, F. came in and carried us off to Villa Santa Maria to 
call on two priests, there for a few days from Rome. They are 
very black at Santa Maria, you know, and in talking last night 
of the celebration to be held, it is feared, in Rome itself in 1911, 
in honor of the taking of the Holy City and the awful insult 
it implies toward the Holy Father, Don A. was never before 
so splendidly eloquent. Though we were none so extremely 
black, but after priests had withdrawn, we were ready fare due 
salti. One always manages somehow to stop to make a " skip 
or two " here in Napoli, whatever their errand may be — bor- 
rowing a book or paying their respects to two of the most 
prominent blacks of Rome. For all Napoli, poveri and nobili, 
are wild over dancing, and Neapolitan families are happily so 
large of themselves that with one or two outsiders a dance may 
be improvised at moment's notice. Or in chance one's family 
is small there are always friends on another floor of the palazzo 
only too glad to come in and complete a set. Life somehow is 
made one long festa here in Naples. And yet the people are 
the most serious on earth — deeply interested in all sorts of sub- 
jects to which Americans seldom give second thought. Debonair 
young nobili whom you are quite sure care for nothing in the 
world more serious than jumping their horses in the Villa or 
popular ballet at San Carlos, will talk for hours of archaeology. 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 259 

and latest explorations of Luigi di Savoia, as they refer to Due a 
d'Aosta; while the Church question in France is subject one hears 
discussed on all sides as absorbing to nobili to-day as were sittings 
of the Council of Trent to Italian gallants of the sixteenth cen- 
tury. And as for charity — even the mien here are enthusi- 
astic over the matter and one is not long in Naples before real- 
izing that Italy^ poor though she is^ leads Europe to-day in her 
charities just as she has always done. 

Several of these men of Naples whom I know^ give more or 
less of their time each week working in one of the Confraternite, 
of which we hear most concerning the famous old Campagnia 
della Misericordia, though there are several — each with its own 
monastic robe completely enshrouding its wearer. Of course 
you must often have seen the members of Misericordia in Flor- 
ence. Here they and other similar brotherhoods do tremendous 
amount of good and the zeal of many of these nobili is splendid. 
We were sauntering through a chasmal by-way this morning 
when four of a Confraternita, their eyes glowing spectrally 
through apertures of their shroud^ came down the steps bear- 
ing a burden on a litter, hurrying off toward the hospital. One 
gave some directions and I'm positive I recognized the voice. 
Chi sa? These litters by the way, used here among the nar- 
row by-ways in Naples are truly cleverly arranged — a large 
cabinet in the lower part holding all those things which we in 
America would place in an ambulance; even Holy Oil so 
that in times of necessity the last rites of the Church may be 
given. Yet I hardly think last rites en route were to be neces- 
sary for our patient in the litter this morning as he was groan- 
ing in altogether too lively a mianner to seem very near death. 
An old man who stood reverently uncovered, as many men do, 
you know, at sight of these bands of mercy, confidentially re- 
marked to us, " Excellenz* he's a big bambino — to make such 
a noise! Santo Dio!" And we merely murmured " Povero! *' 
though we might have answered, the poor fellow wouldn't be 
true Neapolitan did he not make as mluch noise as lay within 
his power even on way to the hospital ! 

For, mamma mia! with all your Florentine experience and 
your stay in Rome, you can't begin to realize anything of the 
sound, and noise and constant tumult going on in this old 



260 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

Naples. Cacophony of cries all hours of day. Donkeys bray- 
ing; hundreds of small bells which bedeck cab-horses tinkling 
in streets, while great bells are constantly pealing resonant and 
deep from three hundred and more Neapolitan churches. Calls 
of the venditori of fruit and greens, fish and flowers and a 
thousand things; dash of cabs which never dream of rubber 
tires though rubber shoes for horses are seemingly no luxury; 
crackling of the cockers' long whips and their vociferous screams 
when accident in rounding a corner at breakneck speed has only 
been averted by ever-watchful protector, St. Anthony. 

For how they drive! — these swarthy, shoulder-shrugging 
cockers of Napoli — each a son of Jehu, son of Nimshi. Think 
of the greatest chariot race you've ever beheld and you have but 
faint idea of what awaits you here. The dare-devil drivers 
dash you bounding over cobble stones, rounding corners 
at such breathless rate you expect each moment to be flung out 
into the arms of one of these handsome soulful-eyed 
flower vendors who run alongside the cab tempting you with 
their wonderful wares. Of course the drivers have no uniform 
whatever — though after all, I don't know why " of course." 
For the uniform is dear delight of Southern Italy and one might 
perhaps reasonably expect to find Neapolitan cabmen ar- 
rayed in some swallow-tail, red be-braided coat such as wear 
the Royal Police and top it off with a dasliing green cock- 
feathered hat surpassing in rakishness even these of the Ber- 
saglieri. But no — they are in civilian dress without even the 
silk hat which I've heard marks the cocker of your hella Firenze, 
And yet, even in civilian dress they each manage the appearance 
of bold brigand. But since all things move in mysterious oppo- 
sites here in this Old World Naples, the more brigandish they 
appear the more angelic and charming they are sure to be. 
Though as one dashes, bounding over the lava block pavement, 
worse by far than any London cobble stones, one might firmly 
believe somie Fra Diavolo had captured them. And like that 
famous Fra Diavolo who lives in song and story, so do these 
debonair jehus of Naples live in tales tourists love to repeat 
of Neapolitan rascality and rapacity. Yet the longer one is 
here the more picturesque and altogether charming they become 
— just as all Naples is loved better the longer one is here. 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 261 

For there is always something new to see — something to be 
explored. Particularly in these chasmal and most extraordinary 
little side-streets which with their conglomeration of odors and 
banks of gay fiori and swarms of dark-eyed people and joyful 
tumult of noise_, are as truly Neapolitan as these brigandish 
cockers. Like Lowell, we learned weeks ago to say, " My 
favorite gallery after all is the street," — whether because of 
the prodigious picturesqueness of these Neapolitan by-ways or 
because the superabundance of Naples' many attractions so 
overwhelms that one is sure to end in spending their days only 
in dolce far niente — chi sa? 

And even before we had finished our coffee this morning we 
had said a domani once again for the Aquarium and set out to 
saunter at hazard through some of these same picturesque laby- 
rinthine by-ways — by-ways which are far too narrow, you 
know, to allow of their being penetrated by cabs and the only 
quadrupeds to be seen are the glassy-eyed goats resting after 
their strenuous morning's work of climbing palazzi stairs, and 
the small panniered donkeys buried in greens. Here lights like 
twinkling stars ever burn before Madonna, for the shadows 
hang heavy in these by-ways of Napoli and daylight descends 
only at noonday to shot the shadows with the sun. But 
streets seem narrower than they really are on account the multi- 
tude of overhanging balconies — gayly adorned balconies which 
are Naples' own ! And though the buildings are not tall accord- 
ing to American conception, yet so narrow the street and so 
filled with honey-combing balconies shutting out the light, that 
when one looks upward there is only mere ribbon of azure sky 
to be seen. In here are swarms of people — masses of humanity 
hastening heaven knoweth where, laughing, talking, singing, 
screaming, scolding, shouting with a volubility which, like the 
gay balconies and brig'andish cockers is Naples' very own. 
Men, women, and children, each picturesque part of the pro- 
digious picturesque of the whole street — each ready to return 
your smile, the women to fling some gracious gossip concerning 
your gown, your hat, or your boots. While any man you meet, 
be he one of the notorious Picciotti themselves, will go any dis- 
tance out his path to show you way to a main street or piazza, 
if by chance one finds himself completely lost — by no means 



262 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

difficult task in these intricate and tortuous ways of this old 
Napoli, often as confounding as Chinese puzzle. Here one may- 
stop to chat with the people to heart's content. It's perhaps 
hard on one's Tuscan but — che vuole? The people are even 
more picturesque than is Dante's Tuscan beautiful. Especially 
the children, though the women with their dark eyes and voluble 
tongues are delightful too — always ready to inquire with frank- 
ness concerning yourself, your gown and where your husband 
may be. Always — dove il marito? And no doubt idea of a 
married woman not being tagged by her husband after the man- 
ner of Italians and the French, strikes them as wonderfully 
queer — macche! but queer! and aifords subject for much specu- 
lation and gossip once we have passed on our way. And on 
hearing that heaven and San Giuseppe have not yet provided 
husband for la signorina they are sure to take it for granted 
she is anxious over the appalling situation and murmur gracious- 
ly, " But la signorina excellenz* will find one in helV Napoli — 
on the Toledo! Santo Dio! but many! " Though how jeune file 
would ever select husband out of that wonderful array of good 
looking nobili and dashing officers, they are not kind enough to 
explain. 

And as one saunters through these tortuous little streets one 
is always sure to run against a little tucked-away church, full 
of twilight even in mid-day, just as it is full of incense and 
prayers of many humble people. For the people here in Naples 
are very religious and their religious faith is sure to impress 
one when comparing them with the same class of poor in 
America. 

And second only, to this great difference in their deep faith 
in God and the saints, is the other great difference in matters 
of their food! For in America you know, 'tis said the poorer 
the people are the more they eat and want to eat; but here, eat- 
ing is always of smallest importance and the amount of food 
actually eaten by these poveri of Naples is small beyond belief. 

And after the charm of the tucked-away little churches, there 
is the lure of the queer little shops which are found here and 
there in the shadows of these Neapolitan by-ways, securely hid- 
den from eyes of tourists who firmly believe there is nothing 
worth buying in all Naples except on Toledo and Chiaia, 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 263 

Those shadowy little shops with the shining copper ware of 
which every kitchen in this country has so generous a supply, 
are full of attraction — whether because the copper here is bur- 
nished so that it glows like Neapolitan sunshine, or whether 
because the men who pound and beat it into shape are always 
debonair and singing as they work — chi sa? 

We bought a bowl this morning, modeled after some of these 
old Pompeiian bowls and having for handles heads of bearded 
Zeus. Of course there was much talk and much eloquent gestic- 
ulation before the piece was truly ours — one must never think 
of such wild extravagance as paying first price asked! But 
mysterious rites of bargaining being accomplished to satisfaction 
of all, our swarthy, smiling, shop-keeper gallantly called a 
Raphael-faced ragazzo feeding goats, instructing him with much 
further gesticulation and voluble talk to carry the bowl for the 
excellenz\ It proved but preliminary of extensive shopping 
within these fascinating little streets this morning. And 
though I'll not be so rash as to say it surpassed charm of shop- 
ping along the Rue de la Paix, yet surely never in France or 
any other country I know, will you shop among people so won- 
derfully picturesque or so divinely gracious. 

You should have been with us ! All those dislikes of Italian 
people which you somehow amassed in such astonishing degree 
in the North would have begun to vanish the very moment we 
left the copper shop and bought the oranges. Two dozen 
delicious ones — the kind called rossa, you know — from a dash- 
ing sun-burned venditore with cart on which oranges and lemons 
were heaped amid their own leaves in splendid array. We had 
them at cinque soldi per dozen, he arranging them with their 
leaves in the copper bowl with taste many an artist might have 
envied. And when the two dozen failed to quite fill the bowl 
he added another, and — Madonna mia! would you believe it? 
— still another, standing off discreetly to admire the effect ! 
Now who but an Italian would have thrown in of his own free 
will those two extra oranges, simply to obtain an artistic result? 

Senza duhbio, you would have been highly amused could you 
have seen us and our handsome Raphael-faced little fellow 
carrying on his head the copper bowl filled with the yellow 
fruit and leaves, and halting to answer, as best he could, ques- 



264 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

tions flung at him concerning the two signore in hats — but true 
hats! who were sauntering through streets no American or tourist 
of any nation ever enters. But with your great fondness of 
fritters you might well have been happy to have been along Ij 
For next we bought two funny, fancy fritters in odorous littl 
cook-shop, where serenely simmering in a large caldron wa 
concoction of tomato and macaroni and garlic and herbs and 
heaven knoweth what not, which in an hour would no doubt fill 
with rapturous delight all those who purchased a soldo's worth. 

And knowing your strong point, O Follower of Aristotle! and 
fearing lest you smile at my mention of purchasing a penny's 
worth of necessity of life, I might stop to explain that it is 
seldom — but seldom e vero! that one merely buys anything in 
this adorable old Napoli. Even for those most petty essentials 
of life such eloquence, such magniloquence, such grandiloquence 
and such wealth of emotional gesticulation are required before 
exchange is finally effected, that 'tis raised to very dignity of 
luxurious purchase. Indeed since such eloquence and emotion 
are required for the buying of a mere dozen oranges or small 
basket of dried figs, one dares not picture the grandiloquence 
necessary when Maria sets forth to buy such tremendous lux- 
uries as American Grape Nuts, for instance, or jar of English 
jam! True those are sold in the English groceries where 
prezzo fisso is supposed to be in order ; but the clerks are Italian 
and dear Maria is Italian, so — chi sa? 

The fritters being disposed of — one inside our Raphael- 
faced ragazzo, the other inside his multi-patched shirt (since, 
indeed, who would be so madly extravagant as to eat at once 
two beautiful fancy fritters for which the excellenz* had paid 
one big copper soldo?), we halted to buy Italian chestnuts from 
an old gypsy-complexioned woman sitting over her charcoal 
brazier — warming herself it is to be hoped to the same nicety 
with which her chestnuts were roasted. Howells, you know, 
says somewhere, " Happy are the men who bake chestnuts, for 
they can unite pleasure and profit," and I suppose profit comes 
in selling them at preposterous rate of eight for a soldo, prezzo 
fisso, and the pleasure, in having fire over which one can warm 
his benumbed fingers, since Tramontana must often carry 
Alpine breezes direct to bone in these little shadowy streets 



I 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 265 

where such wealth of gold sunshine as we have here in Parco 
Margherita, is unknown even in midsummer. Yet warmth from 
many old traditions and mysteries which abound in these secret- 
filled by-ways no doubt makes up in great measure for lack of 
sun to those who dwell therein. But for us forestiere without 
warmth of many mysteries in our heart_, fur coats and hot 
chestnuts seem rien de trop. 

And at another shop just across^ we bought dried squash 
seeds — marvelous delicacy here in Naples ! Madame first 
treated me to some and truly they are rather good. Perhaps 
one might even be led to consider them a delicacy along with 
the Neapolitans^ if they sold a grands frais. But as it was 
we had fully a pint given us for died soldi. I graciously gave 
them to Maria and she, after Neapolitan fashion, politely divided 
with the gargon who brings up our mail and runs errands for 
her — the squash seed luxury pleasing him so exceedingly we 
propose to see he is supplied with them forever more, since 
for some mysterious reason, a soldo's worth of squash seeds 
causes far greater satisfaction it appears than five soldi in cold 
cash. But why — chi sa? Naples is brim full of mysteries 
of all sorts ! 

And then next we stopped at a little pasta shop — a mere 
recess in the wall, but holding wealth of pasta in every con- 
ceivable shape from tiny stars to great tubes like gas piping. 
We amused ourselves in selecting some of each variety, explain- 
ing to the smiling bottegaio in our best Neapolitan that we 
would take it to America to show our friends what marvelous 
art Neapolitans made of manufacturing the maccheroni. It 
pleased him wonderfully and calling his wife he explained the 
situation with eloquence. Together they dived into hidden 
corners and under the diminutive counter, bringing to light still 
different kinds — letters of the alphabet, wonderful flowers and 
chains, until we began to wonder if there was very high duty 
on bringing macaroni into America ! Yet when with trepidation 
we asked, " quanto costo^ " the reply was surely astonishing — 
*' Niente, niente! excellenz*! " The thought that their pasta 
would go to America, was pay, and more than pay. Will you 
tell me where but in Italy one would find such people? And 
they, with their modest little shop, did not look in the least 



266 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

as though they could afford to give away almost a kilo of pasta, 
for it is not at all cheap here in Naples as one might suppose 
from seeing the quantities forever on display, and is con- 
sidered far too great a luxury to be eaten commonly as many 
tourists vainly imagine. So I thanked him molto, molto, and 
graciously begged he would say whether the two franc piece I 
placed on his scales was too little. But when we refused to 
allow him to hand it back he boldly dropped it down among 
the oranges in the bowl, exclaiming " Troppo, troppo! ** and in- 
sisted to be allowed to favor the helV americane. And this, 
J., you must remember is parsimonious Italy! These, some of 
her avaricious people. The woman too, refused paga, smiling 
graciously and exclaiming over our clothes and especially — 
if you will forgive my great frankness in speaking of such a 

thing our beauty ! until if I am vain and inclined to snub you 

this summer, be not in the least surprised. 

It is not usual that a woman of the popoli hassi especially 
admires a capello, however charming it may be, since they them- 
selves have never known the joy of crowning their own blue- 
black hair with chapeaux and of course never will as long as 
Parthenope rules in this old Napoli. But our donna of the 
pasta shop was all taken with mammina's hat — so elegant, she 
murmured admiringly, though you will smile when I tell you 
it was nothing less than that hat with the brown coque at which 
you laughed so mercilessly the day you were shopping with 
us on Fifth Avenue. Yet surely you would never for moment 
think of suggesting you had better taste than one of these 
artistic Neapolitans even though it be but a humble woman who 
sells pasta and never in her life had a hat to crown her wealth 
of hair. 

We shall go again to find them and though we have not the 
address (such luxury as pencil and paper being not theirs and 
as it happened not ours either), we shall go as we did this morn- 
ing. Back of Gambrinus by the window where rotund, ruddy 
Tedesci always sit — who knows why? unless because on that 
side of the cafe there is little passing with its constant attrac- 
tion and one may give full time to food and manipulation of 
one's knife, through which medium gastronomic feats as aston- 
ishing as these of the ragazzi napolitani who eat macaroni with 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 267 

their fingers^ are accomplished with dexterity inconceivable. 
And having rounded that side of Gambrinus which the Tedesci 
love, one saunters on past the little shop where dashing uni- 
forms are fashioned and Bersaglieri hats with their flowing cock 
feathers make so brave a show in the small window that one 
almost expects to see them dart away at double quick. Then 
up that street where this morning a vendor had a cart of true 
peanuts — tremendous curiosity here — of which we bought due 
soldi' s worth to the great edification of ragazzi who gathered 
around, half afraid at first to try a thing so mysterious, but so 
soon won over that as we turned away there was not a shell 
in sight. Shades of appendicitis ! — or is that perhaps alto- 
gether too modern for such an Old World place as this Naples 
of the Siren? And soon one comes to Monte di Die where on 
this spur of Pizzofalcone there are splendid old palazzi with 
even more splendid old major-domi always at their entrance, 
and best of all there is that most charming Reale Politeamo 
Giacosa where now that Lent is here and days of circus over, 
wonderful concerts are given. Yet one stops only to read the 
posters and learn what caro maestro is to direct there next, and 
turns toward the Chiaia, making their way to the old bridge 
with its sculptures and inscriptions spanning the crooked 
tumultuous street. True, had we not desired to see the Politeamo 
posters we might have cut pff distance by coming up the stairs 
which lead straight up from the Chiaia to the Mountain of 
God. Or if perchance one was so prosaic as to think a lift 
preferable to meeting the large flock of goats — always sure to 
be tripping down the stairs as you go up, or vice versa, — for 
the price of soldo, you may ride just as those Americans in mad 
rush in Rome always take a lift up or down the Spanish Stairs. 
But here no tourist, in however mad rush he might be, would 
for moment consider taking the lift to Monte di Dio — for the 
very simple reason that no one ever stops long enough in Napoli 
to hear of such a place as Monte di Dio and its adorable 
Politeamo. And once across the bridge one continues straight 
ahead, seemingly into the third or fourth floor of some old 
Chiaia palazzo, though the clever old builders here in Napoli 
planned so well, that in place of viewing some bedroom frescoes 
of cupids and angels, as palazzi bedrooms here in Naples almost 



268 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

always have, you still look up and find slit of azure sky above 
your head. And at the first corner where Madonna, sweet and 
patient of face, looks down upon wonderful, if uncanny, array 
of votive offerings of arms and legs and hearts, one turns and 
makes their way, stopping to chat here and there, until one 
reaches the little tucked-away chiesa where the sanctuary lamp 
is of gold like Neapolitan sunshine and studded with sapphires 
like imprisoned particles of Neapolitan sea and sky. And as 
one comes out and rounds the corner, one hears the loud pound- 
ing and the gay singing of those dark-eyed men who beat the 
copper to fashion our bowl, and from there it shall be but a 
simple matter to make one's way through the swarms of children 
and chickens and goats and men and women who are busy with 
a million things, until at beginning of the weather-beaten stair- 
street, leading heaven knoweth where! there will be the shop 
selling pasta — pasta of stars and tubes, letters and flowers, 
pasta everywhere! 

Pray mark all these directions well, carino, for it is not only 
we who shall follow till we come there again, but you too. For 
when you are first come into this great Napoli, before even you 
stop for Tauchnitz editions or your tickets for San Carlos — 
yes, even before you take your higlietti di lotto, you also must 
make your way up to this old Chiaia bridge, whether by way of 
the Politeamo or by the Chiaia steps with the goats or in the 
lift with the nohili — fa non niente! But having arrived thus 
far you shall make your way to the little church which is full 
of twilight and incense; and issuing forth your ear will catch 
the sound of men pounding the copper and singing as they 
work. And having after much bargaining taken a bowl, or per- 
haps a jar adorned with Bacchus for your tobacco, you shall 
take the oranges which are^ red and sweet, and the great chest- 
nuts which are roasted till they have popped for joy, and the 
squash seeds which are a delicacy, e vero, compared with the 
funny, fancy fritters which you shall not forget to buy in the 
odorous little cook shop for the ragazzo who carries your bowl 
and tells you no doubt that he is dying of hunger — a fact 
you may be inclined to question, having probably seen him in 
midst of turning marvelous cart-wheels a moment before he 
became your servant for the nonce. And at last you shall come 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 269 

to the shop of the pasta. And here you shall select each kind 
with care and listen to the gracious gossip of signora who will 
mention us as two excellenz' belle of your land whom she once 
knew — though had I not told you, you would perhaps never 
have mistrusted she had reference to me as la signorina sim- 
patica — ma si simpatica! And haWng gossiped five minutes 
you may take your leave and though they will have charged 
you two prices for the pasta which you bring away, I, some- 
where out in the world, shall know you have left behind you in 
that street all your hardness of heart toward Italian people, and 
that as you make your way slowly homeward among the throngs 
of people who fill the by-ways like dense shadow, you will see 
in full half the eyes you meet, the smile of God. That smile, 
you know, which God gave to St. Michael for the Italian 
people. 



Naples sitteth by the sea, keystone of an arch of azure." 

TUPPER 



TOM. 

Napoli, February — 

SIROCCO, grazie a Dio, has ceased. And after two days 
of rain, and wind and mad waves dashing into the Villa, 
Naples lies flooded in sunshine, smiling at the whole world as 
she coquettishly bathes her white feet in the sapphire of the 
bay. 

Yet we, rather than basking in the sunshin;e, have been 
prowling through the catacombs of San GennM.ro with Due 
G. and Marquis T. While not so famous and interesting 
as the catacombs of Rome, they far surpass them' in their archi- 
tecture, having passages both higher and wider. And not hav- 
ing seen those of Rome we thought these wonderfully interesting 
with their many old tombs decorated with the fish, — oldest after 
the pax of all Christian symbols, peacocks, and flowers, though 
most of the tablets and old Latin inscriptions have been re- 
moved to the Museum where F. often delights in separating 
words and translating. 'Tis thought these catacombs were first 
built by the Grecian colonists and later used by the early 
Christians. San Gennaro, the patron saint of Naples, and 
mtiny other noble martyrs were buried here, and passages are of 
great extent, reaching as far as Pozzuoli and underlying the 
entire heights of Capodimonte so the Royal Palace there was 
built with great expense in strengthening foundations. 

Coming home by the Botanical Gardens we stopped in one of 
the little marionette theaters on Strada Foria — extremely 
amusing and very Neapolitan. Cimeomotographs, however, are 
springing up here and there and threaten ruin to the pictur- 
esque little marionette and Pulcinello theaters — dear delight 
for many years of these Neapolitans. 

Near here, too, we took with much careful choosing of num- 

270 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 271 

bers, biglietti di Lotto — vowing if the Saints aided us in 
selecting numeri fortunati all proceeds to be devoted to Charity. 
We each took same numbers of a terzo and the four tickets 
should bring several hundred thousand lire ! — provided Heaven 
smiles graciously upon our gambling. 

Many of the nobili here take their Tombola tickets every week 
as regularly as they attend a Mass — the winnings always going 
to their pet charity. For here the Neapolitans have the poor 
always with them and everyone — man^ woman, and child of 
the nobility, has some special charity, and since the suppression 
of so many of the convents where aid was always given the 
poor, the work has been devotedly carried on to large extent by 
individuals. 

The King and Queen set splendid example and their charity, 
while very unostentatious, is often spoken of. The giving of 
alms is the one pleasure which the King never stints himself, 
although both he and the lovely Queen Elena are so simple in 
their tastes and live very plainly. 'Tis said that in visiting in 
the different Italian cities, they will of course go to the Royal 
Palace, but instead of opening the state apartments, will occupy 
only a few rooms and have their meals sent in from some near- 
by ristorante — very simple meals too and all the dishes brought 
in at once — the servants dismissed and then they serve each 
other! Indeed their life is so simple and sweet that it seems 
it must be as Marcus Aurelius said, " Even in a palace life may 
be well led." Yet their simple tastes are not at all in keeping 
with the Royal House of Italy, so many of the old nobility 
criticise, and declare that the King and Queen and their house- 
hold are much more like some middle-class family ! 

But the Neapolitans in spite of their love for elegance, adore 
the King. True they were disappointed in him when he was 
a young fellow and as Crown Prince had his headquarters in 
Naples, since he took no part in the Neapolitan gayeties but 
spent all spare moments in study, yet they have quite forgiven 
him for that and 'tis said that the Neapolitans are as loyal to 
the House of Savoy as any of the Piedmontese. For these 
Neapolitans can never forget how Humbert, King Victor's 
father, rose from a sick bed at midnight when news came that 
cholera had broken out so seriously in Naples, how he can- 



27^ CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

celled an engagement for a banquet at Monza — where later 
he was to meet death — and came in a special train to Naples 
with all haste, working night and day among the poor and in the 
hospitals, exposing himself to all dangers, comforting the sick 
and dying. Tliis, a theme on which Neapolitans rich and poor 
are never tired of talking. Only the other night at a dinner 
at Duchessa P.'s, incidents of Humbert's great kindness to 
Naples during the cholera and of how he rushed to Casamicciola 
when the great earthquake came to Ischia in 1883, were related 
one after another. And Due M., one of the old Neapolitans, 
said to me, " And if trouble comes to us again, our young King 
Avill be with us, just as his father was always with us." 

From marionette theaters and tombola tickets to churches may 
seem a jump — ah, well, we are in Italy! and to complete our 
morning we went into Church of San Lorenzo, Giambattista 
delta Porta, the great philosopher who first suggested the 
Encyclopaedia, is buried in this Church and here Boccaccio saw 
for the first time, Maria, daughter of Robert the Wise, whom 
he afterwards extolled as the beautiful " Fiammetta." But it 
was not to recall romance or visit tombs that we went to St. 
Lawrence this morning, but to hear a Lenten sermon by Father 
G. of Rome — the guest while here in Naples of some of our 
friends. His sermon to-day was wonderfully eloquent and 
humble people from the street came in — several hundreds — 
during the noon hour, listening with rapt attention. Work- 
men, tired no doubt after their morning's work, but too poor to 
rent a chair, stood motionless the full hour. Women with sev- 
eral small children clinging to their skirts and often a bam- 
binino in their arms, stood too or sat on altar steps of the chapels 
— all listening with as profound attention as the nobili who had 
come in carriages and sat in chairs. Thus all through Lent they 
come and often again at evening to hear a Sermon — these 
humble Neapolitan people whom so many call insouciant and 
worse ! 

The B.'s have returned from Sorrento and Salerno and I had 

H. out for the corso and tea with me and Mr. B , our New 

York friend who is here now and takes F.'s place very cleverly 
while he is away and Mr. T. off in Sicily for a few days. 
Americans, outside of the madly rushing tourists, are really 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 273 

scarce here in Naples, but fortunately Mr. B. was able to press 
one of his friends, a Mr. G. from Chicago, into service to comr 
plete a quartato americano who could spend afternoon sans 
chaperone. Doubtless raadame will think it quite shocking when 
it comes to her ears — as of course it will since in making the 
corso one sees tutto al mondo! 

The military band played in the Villa to-day, so corso was 
held on the Caracciolo — very different Caracciolo to-day from 
that of only yesterday when great sea waves dashing over the 
wall threw their spray into very center of the Villa making 
driving on the Caracciolo splendid substitute for sea-bathing. 
We went down to H.'s hotel to call for her and as it happened, 
Mr. G. is also staying at this hotel, had seen H. in one of the 
salons, was quite wild to meet her, yet had no idea that she was 
the girl whom he had been asked to take to tea! Of course 
he was happily surprised and we made a little party, simpatica, 
though several of the Neapolitan dowagers and duennas driving 
with girls under close guard, cast rather reproachful glances 
in our direction — glances such as Dante seems to cast on us 
as we make the corso on Toledo. 

For there is a magnificent statue of Dante in a piazza in the 
Toledo and often, as one makes the trottata back and forth the 
long street — brave in Paris gowns and arms full of flowers — 
Dante's mournful, ethereal expression suddenly strikes chill to 
one's heart. So touchingly lonely does he seemi as he sits 
there, his chin upon his fingers, looking solemnly down on 
throngs of Toledo, that it seems we making the corso, chatting 
gayly and flinging smiles to friends in adjoining carriages, have 
no right to turquoise sky, gold sunshine and flowers and friends. 
Indeed was it not Dante who wrote in his mystic, unfathomable 
Paradiso, " Tu lascerai ogni cosa diletta piu caramente '* — '^ 
— thou shalt forsake everything most dearly loved. 

We had tea at Vittoria Galleria and then later came out on 
the balcony overhanging the winter garden where the orchestra 
is stationed each afternoon. H. and I tried to order some Coca 
Cola — a drink of which we Southerners you know are very 
fond. It was not down on the carte, to be sure, but after few 
moments of pensees sombres, our little waiter dashed off with 
speed. Bold visions of importation direct from Atlanta floated 



274. CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 



fori 



before us and I fell to wondering wliy I had never asked 
it before, especially since Maria buys Grape Nuts for mamma — 
true article, straight from Battle Creek! Hopes had reached 
zenith, when our gargon returned, triumphantly bearing bottle 
and four glasses with many elegant flourishes, bravely exclaim- 
ing '" Voila! " With shouts of laughter, Mr. G. read the label — 
Kola Hair Restorer! But we drowned our poignant sorrow in 
some sort of Neapolitan nectar — and spent rest of the after- 
noon in manner these Neapolitans call a Vamericaine (whatever 
that may be) ! Many of my Neapolitan friends were strolling 
in the Galleria this afternoon, brave with sticks, houtonnieres, and 
monocles, and unlike their mothers an hour earlier in making 
the corso, cast glances of evident envy up at us four chaperone- 
less Americans. 

The B.'s leave to-morrow for Sicily. We, also, think of 
running down there before we leave Naples for Rome. One 
goes generally by steamer and 'tis said to be a charming excur- 
sion. Goethe, you know, has said, that 

" Italy without Sicily leaves no image in the soul — 
** Sicily is the key to all." 

Yet it is Goethe too who said, " a man can never be utterly 
miserable who retains recollection of Naples," and " I pardoned 
all who lose their senses in Naples." 



For if you love Italy you will follow the road" [ 

HUTTON 



TOG. 

Naples, February — 

WE'VE spent a charming day basking in the golden sun- 
shine of this wondrous Vesuvian coast, though forsooth, 
it was Herculaneum we went out for to see. Our first visit to 
that buried city of the old Greeks since this dear, darling 
Napoli is center of such wealth of enticing excursions ever- 
beckoning that one knows not which way to turn and ends by 
letting the golden days fleet by in dolce far niente. Though true, 
we have not all these months forgotten Herculaneum and went 
out once with F. only to find the ruins closed on account of 
festa. Oh, che hella festal That is to say, you know, streets 
more densely crowded than ever with sun-scorched, smiling 
people, and odors of garlic and flowers and frying fish blending 
with gay chants of FinicoU-Funicola and mysterious calls and 
cries. 

Festa — feste always here it seems! either civil or religious. 
But mostly religious by far in this Old-World Campania, for 
Naples was early Christian and always devout, and so no wonder 
the blessed saints have more devotees here in this passionate 
old Naples than in any other city of the world. Each Saint 
has his own festa (and oh, the wealth of noble saints of this 
Campania of whom we of America have never heard!) — and 
since each man, womian and child is named after their own par- 
ticular saint, each person has their own giorna festa to keep 
in splendor his purse permits. This, in lieu of the birthday 
celebrations we have at home you know. Indeed birthdays 
among the poveri are so ignored that many are unable to tell 
their correct age. But what diff'erence that.^ As an old 
Phrygian-capped sailor of the Mergillina said a few days ago 
— " But, Santa Dio! signore, I need not trouble my poor head 

275 



276 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

with numbers — the blessed saints well know when 'tis time for 
us to go to Purgatory." And we humbly acquiesced before his 
wisdom. 

Yet tourists declare it altogether maddening as they rush 
through Italy (allotting a whole day to a city !) to find on that 
very day upon driving to a Museum or Galleria, very necessary 
to satisfactorily " doing " a place ! that it is chiuso on account 
of festa. Two German women whom we met this winter, after 
several such experiences now insist on carrying in the ample 
pockets of their voluminous petticoats, calendars marked with 
the feste, as faithfully as they carry their scarlet Baedekers 
lest they again make engagements conflicting with those of 
some sweet saint. 

Yet Sundays are each a festa too, though not of the order to 
close Galleries or Ruins but on rare oecasions, and the drive 
through the crowded old quarters of Naples and through en- 
chanting little coast towns as malodorous as picturesque, was 
overflowing with charm to-day. 

Down the Chiaia where Rafaello was waiting with corsage 
bouquets, — one which for sheer loveliness has never been 
equaled in all history of this Napoli I verily believe. Violets of 
portentous size — not at all the modest violet we know in America 
— surrounding delicious rosemary of blue — blue as the girdle 
Madonna flung down from the heavens to doubting Saint 
Thomas. Ah, this rosemary of Italy, with its blue so much bluer 
and its scent so much sweeter than the rosemary of other lands ! 
All, no doubt, because here they believe the sweet old legend 
that it was once a very ordinary kitchen garden herb, until one 
day Madonna Mary having washed the precious swaddling 
clothes of Bambino Gesii, spread them out upon the rosemary 
growing in their Nazareth garden. And ever since that happy 
day the humble rosemary has had its delicate odor and has been 
allowed to bloom with the flowers of the blue Madonna herself 
loves so well. So at least Maria loves to tell me, and as proof 
did she not show me during the Octave of the Nativity how 
rosemary miraculously expanded each flower in honor of the 
Blessed Child Whose swaddling clothes it had once held.'^ 

And like our corsage bouquets, there were splendid splashes 
of color everywhere this morning as we drove through the old 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 277 

streets of this gay, laughing Napoli toward the buried Hercu- 
laneum which may once have been as gay, though it could never 
in world have held such wealth of picturesque as this wonder- 
ful Naples. 

For picturesque, like the splashes of vivid color, was every- 
where this morning. Even in that grim, gaunt Castlenuovo 
which ever broods over these bustling quays. Sance as we 
rattled past over the cobblestones, some accident — or more 
likely some incident! for it takes little to draw a crowd together 
in this swarming old city — had brought a vociferating, clam- 
oring and gesticulating throng round its entrance. Picturesque 
reminder of the day long ago when that humble hermit, Pietro 
da Morrone, was guest within its massive walls and the Cardinals 
insisting on giving him the Triple Crown, crowds similar no 
doubt to this of this morning gathered outside the gate^ crying 
that he come to the windows to bestow his blessing. But so 
humble he, that at news of the honor so suddenly fallen on his 
shoulders, he hid himself in one of the luiderground chambers 
of the old castle and had to be dragged out to bless the clamor- 
ing people — his devotions and sweet meditations made well nigh 
impossible by the tumult and Neapolitan din. 

And there in the very shadow of the somber old Castlenuovo 
is a lemon-stall making such wonderful splash of yellow and 
green that it catches eye of even the rushing tourists who dash 
by on way to train or steamer. Though little they guess that 
the old ear-ringed nonna, wrinkled and yellow as a ripe medlar, 
whom they see smiling out at them from beyond the green lemon 
boughs, is a notorious old witch. A strega true, 'tis cautiously 
whispered, who will make you an unfailing Fattura delta Morte 
— do you ever happen to desire your enemy's death. A Fattura 
delta morte made from one of her own great lemons into which 
she drives twenty-four nails with many an evil incantation, lac- 
ing them together with scarlet twine she carries in her bosom. 
Conceal this in your enemy's home — the deed is done. 

But whispers of death-dealing strege, like whispers of 
Camorra, are whispers one never hears in this loud-murmuring 
old Napoli, unless they know their city well. Yet to those who 
know, there is mystery upon mystery ever brooding over all. 
Mystery in the very sun-smitten air of noonday as well as in 



278 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

the dark shadows of night. One feels the mystery of the city 
more than ever as they move through the old quarters around 
the port — the old Naples of that Masaniello who grew over- 
bold in his glory. Or. was he truly poisoned at the Duke of 
Arcos' table so that he went insane.'' Chi sa? Naples is ever 
city of chi sa? even as of dolce far niente. 

And passing Santa Maria del Carmine with its old Castle, 
one always remembers that queer little Gennaro Annese whom! 
the people chose to take the murdered Masaniello's place and 
whom the French Due de Guise visited here, leaving us many 
an amusing story of the little demagogue who quaked con- 
stantly in fear of his life and carried alway on his person six 
great pistols and a blunderbuss of portentous size. Nearly 
starved the day of his arrival in Naples, the Due de Guise at 
last had courage to suggest dinner, only to learn he must wait 
some hours, as Annese's wife herself did all the cooking, her 
husband living in such perpetual fear of poisoning. And De 
Guise having fled France to save his own life no doubt patiently 
waited Signora's pleasure. Yet what must his terror have been 
when Annese for safety insisted on sleeping with him ! — all 
this, in that same old Castle del Carmine which had concealed 
Masaniello's murderers few months before. Poor Annese! for 
it was not very long before he, too, suffered death in the same 
turbulent old Piazza near-by, whose sunshine had been the last 
to smile on the boy Conradin. 

Yet even the anecdotes of history seem too prosaic for the 
Napoli through which we made our way this morning — moving 
slowly, and halting often, for the streets belong to the people 
on a festa. But who would have it otherwise? With such pro- 
digious picturesque at every turn and glimpses of beauty press- 
ing on every side till one's brain spins like a gyroscope. 

Smiling, sun-scorched people who flatten themselves against 
the walls to let your carozzella drive through their narrow, 
cobblestoned old streets. Women with hair darkly purple like 
the grapes of Campanian vintage, cooking marvelous, mysterious 
mixtures of everything that flourishes under Neapolitan sun. 
Streets full of odors such as only Naples knows. Southern love 
songs sung by animated idlers with pathos sufficient to melt 
heart of any coquette. Horses mysteriously^: harnessed with 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 279 

donkeys by mysterious arrangement of rope. Bowls of mashed 
tomatoes standing in the sunshine, undergoing mysterious proc- 
ess by which they will be turned into thick red paste, as neces- 
sary to Neapolitan artista of the kitchen as garlic and cheese. 
Pots of flowers everywhere, for flowers are necessity too, to these 
beauty-loving people of the South, — never a luxury. Glimpses 
of sun-drenched gardens with oranges glowing amid their dark 
foliage like the fiery gold suns which sink to rest night after 
night on bosom of this fair Tyrrhene. And glimpses too of 
this Tyrrhenia herself — far lovelier than that fair TuUia of 
Arragon whom some loved to call Tyrrhenia. As lovely, in 
truth, as that adorable Vittoria Colonna whom Tullia often en- 
vied. 

A tavern with the classic bush — never-failing sign of the 
wine-shop even were there no frenzied shouts of uno, due, tre! 
of the mora games played therein. Tableaux vivants of 
Madonna and Child in many a doorway — bambini with aston- 
ishing wise little faces and serious black eyes which stare at 
one mercilessly. Glimpses of a little convent dozing sweetly 
in fancied security behind its high garden walls, beyond which 
the ambitious murmurings of this Young Italy seldom, if ever, 
penetrate. Tiny, secret-filled streets holding wealth of dormant 
color awaiting the artists who rush through Naples to Rome and 
Florence, never knowing on what they turn their backs. Piazze 
as full of picturesque, humming crowds as the sky is full of blue. 
Sailors and sailors — sun-scorched sons of the sea full of grace 
and debonair. Italian sailors everywhere this winter, since there 
is a great sciopera on now for months among the Italian steam- 
ship lines and many an idle ship rides the blue of the Bay. 
Gesticulating crowds gathered round a banco di lotto where the 
Humeri fortunati of yesterday's drawing are posted. For Lotto 
is the fascination of all this Neapolitan coast you know — so 
great a necessity to an Italian of the South that in spite all 
laws forbidding its play in America you may find (had you 
only love of lotto in your heart to proper degree!) many a secret 
corner in New York where these sons of old Napoli take their 
biglietti di lotto each week. 

Someone forever testing lire, biting the coin with flashing 
white teeth or flinging it with force on the pavement from which 



280 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

if the coin be true it will rebound with infallible force. A girl 
of wondrous dark eyes — replica of that so-called Beatrice 
Cenci, though we of Italy know Beatrice herself was no sixteen- 
year-old girl as cicerones love to relate to gaping tourists, but 
a woman of full two and twenty summers and the lovely picture 
purporting to be Beatrice in prison is not she at all, since Guido 
did not come to Rome till nine years after her death. Nets 
drying in the sun and nets which old wrinkled fishermen are 
always and forever mending, just as their gossipy women are 
always and forever patching their clothes — even on a festal 
Tall many-balconied buildings of age like the Cumean Sibyl, 
which lean forward as if to whisper secrets to the old buildings 
just across the narrow way. Old streets over whose cobblestones 
one may bump the bumps far more eifectively than at Coney Is- 
land. Beggars — beggars everywhere ! Chanting their miserere 
yet not neglecting to turn it into a gloria once you have opened 
heart and purse; thanking you with graciousness quite out of 
scale with the small alms you give. And not far away, for beg- 
gars and churches go hand in hand in this devout land, a little 
chiesa, which if humble and bare without, was all warmth and 
glorious witliin with the wonderful, mystic Glory which the 
true Church ever holds on its Altar, shrouded with the love and 
adoration of many a faithful Neapolitan heart. Brown-legged 
boys, ragged, yet radiant as Neapolitan sunshine. People call- 
ing, chaffing, laughing, singing. You know how it is on the 
Italian streets perhaps, in New York on Sunday — laughter and 
song, children dancing, the whole world happy. Here 'tis the 
same, only true in far greater measure of picturesque. Measure 
as much greater, to be exact, as this Tyrrhene sea is bluer than 
Atlantic and this sun above Napoli more full of gold than sun 
which looks down on Mulberry Street or the Bronx. 

Whole families spilling out into the street engaged in all sorts 
of pursuits of household duties and toilet-making. Gay, glad 
ragazzi turning brave handsprings under your very carriage 
wheels — two this morning in diminutive robes modeled on those 
of the religious, it being believed by wise fond mothers that an 
evil spirit is little likely to trouble the darling frocked in the 
robe of holy men! The earth-brown robe of Saint Francis is 
in particular f avor^ it would seem, — since of course evil powers 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 281 

have not the face to stand in presence of that most sweet 
Poverello. Though the earth-colored robe well patched with 
old reds and purples of divers gay shawls and bold petticoats 
is rather more apt to attract a cunning little fiend than repel, 
one might well believe — did they not fully understand the 
ways of this mysterious land. 

For the Naples which tourists sometimes cruelly call " city 
of rags " is far more truly " city of patches." Garments so 
patched that they end by being a crazy conglomeration of multi- 
colors. And judging from the arrays of garments which hung 
and lay everywhere drying in the kind warm sun this morning, 
one might believe half the population of this Vesuvian coast 
abed ! For there are many, not only of the poveri, but of the 
gay, gallant nobles of the Toledo, it is whispered, who, like 
Bernardo Tasso, are so pitifully poor they must stay in bed to 
have laundry and patching done ere they can again show brave 
face to this laughing old Naples. 

But we were far from the Toledo as we clattered over the 
streets of Portici, where this morning we saw the Blessed Sacra- 
ment carried from a church to some dying soul, many humbly 
kneeling as the Host passed by, though there are dozens of 
tourists who after a few days in Naples, will boldly tell you 
that the Faith means nothing to these people of the South. And 
'tis there too among the animated throngs of Portici, that one 
will always see Franciscan friars moving, their money boxes 
jingling with the coins of those who have little, yet of that little 
give joyously. Indeed if you tram out to Portici from Napoli 
some day, you shall see with great amazement that the car is 
stopped long enough for a friar of St. Francis to go through 
its entire length offering his box for contributions to each pas- 
senger. Suffice to say he receives little encouragement from 
the dark looks of those tourists of dynamic life to whom this 
halt is maddening. Though sight of the humble poveri in second 
class compartments, slipping whole soldi in the Capuchin's box 
is enough to shame even a Protestant. And even though the 
friar may look far from a saint, still is he not son of that 
sweetest Saint whom world ever knew? 

One sees friars of each the Franciscan orders here in this 
devout old Campanian Napoli. Friars Minor in dark brown 



282 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

robe and discalced^ the Conventuals in black and though shod 
are unshaven^ and the ever-present Capuchin in his earth-brown 
robe, humbly barefoot, though of course the Capuchin as well as 
his discalced brother is invisibly shod with gold so one may 
well wonder where the poverty and humility comes in. And 
with sons of St. Francis at every turn, one often remembers 
how Dante himself, though he reproved the Franciscans so 
severely in that twelfth Canto of the Paradiso, was ever devoted 
to all the sons of the Poor Little Man in Christ, and his rebuke 
was only because he loved them so dearly he could not bear 
they fall so short the ideal of the Blessed Francis. Just as, 
a true and loyal son of the Church, he found courage to rebuke 
even a Pope who might fall short of what he knew Christ's 
Bishop should be. For he was ever a loyal Catholic, that sweet, 
divine Dante, in spite all claims Protestants love to make, and 
was himself member of the third Order, turning to the Francis- 
can convents in his exile. 

And out where Portici spills itself into the adjoining town, 
there is a certain little gray and red church into which an old 
fellow of gray beard and red shirt which his coat could not 
conceal, was hurrying as we passed. An old Garibaldean per- 
haps, though we declared it might well have been ghost of the 
hero himself, — seeking, as after Mentana, refuge in a con- 
fessional! This, the foe of the Church and scourge of the 
monks. Ah, one learns many things while lingering here in this 
land of dolce far niente. Not all old legends and mysteries, 
but solemn facts of history astounding to American ears. For 
one does not live long among the Neapolitans without learning 
that historians have falsified for almost half a century in per- 
suading the world that the Neapolitans themselves desired the 
change and that the new rule was joyously proclaimed. Just 
as they love to say of the Romans who, loyal to their Pope, 
fought valiantly to preserve his kingdom till he himself sent 
forth command, " Let there be no more blood shed." They 
love so well, you know, to relate of how on that memorable 
September 7th, Garibaldi and his staff entered this teeming old 
Napoli without troops. The king had fled, yet barracks were 
full of his soldiers and the old Castle Sant* Elmo alive with 
cannon pointing down into the city into which the hero was to 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 283 

enter. Who^ until they number among their friends those who 
lived through those days^ are not thrilled by the tales of how 
the dauntless Garibaldi stood in his carriage as it drove down 
the Toledo at very foot of old Sant' Elmo with its bristling can- 
nons, and calmly ordered his coachman to go slower — slower ! 
Such courage — mamma mia! AVhat of all those thousands and 
thousands who resisted, fighting so bravely for their sunny king- 
dom of Naples against Victor Emmanuel and Garibaldi that in 
the final engagement practically two thousand loyalists were shot 
at once, over 7000 a few hours later and 13,000 cast into prison 
— all this, after over 100,000 had sacrificed their lives in battle! 
Why will historians completely ignore all these facts of loyal 
Neapolitans when they write their distorted books in glory of 
the Plebiscites whose greatest victories were gained only through 
base bribery of chief authorities. As for instance that General 
Lanza of Palermo who received one million francs for surrender 
to Garibaldi, shutting his army of 25,000 loyalists inside the 
fortress that no opposition might confront the invading army. 
One has heard for years in America of 'how city after city went 
wild with joy and wept in ecstasies of happiness as they were 
entered and seized for Young Italy. One must live here and 
know their South well before they begin to understand that 
handing over this Kingdom of Naples to House of Savoy was 
far bitterer cup to Neapolitans than any rule of Bomba. 

Yet you may be very sure all these very solemn facts of his- 
tory did not trouble us this morning even upon sight of Gari- 
baldi's shadow entering a church, and we dashed through the 
streets of the happy Vesuvian coast villages with thoughts but 
for the Old World charm of picturesque and mystery each turn 
of the road held out. Each street so o'erflowing with animated 
life and bustle that one might well think inhabitants endeavor- 
ing on this one sunshiny festa to make up for all feste it had lost 
through capricious moods of that demonic Vesuve ever-looming 
o'er them. 

Little towns where chains of golden pasta are forever drying 
in the hot sun — pasta in all sorts of forms and sizes running 
from thread-like variety called Hairs of Angels ! — Capilla 
degli angeli — to great heavy tubing like a garden hose, yet 
none the less tempting, no doubt, to German palates on account 



284 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

its size ! And far more enticing than the macaroni manufacture 
are the coral works found here along the coast, especially in 
Torre del Greco, that swarming village of — who knows how 
many sun-scorched, brown-eyed people ? — which lies 'tween 
Napoli and Vesuve and as the people there will themselves tell 
you gayly, always pay the price of the many sins la bella 
Napoli commits, since 'tis always they on whom the fires of 
Vesuve reek vengeance — not daring to touch that divine 
Parthenope under protection of San Gennaro. " Napoli fa 
gli peccati e la Torre gli paga ** — the old proverb still holds 
good. The eruption of 1 906 — one of the worst on record — 
has it been forgotten by the people, one wonders. Yet in this 
bold, gay sunshine one can afford to laugh it seems in very face 
of death and the streets resound with laugh and song and one 
might easily believe Vesuve as never-changing as his sister 
Monte Somma. 

And if all this mad mixture of witches and awesome fattura 
della morte, Franciscan friars, and a hundred and one other 
tilings, reads like a jumble, it is, after all, but the way 'tis found 
here on this sweet Campanian coast, as you shall see for your- 
self some day if you are wise enough to drive out from Naples 
to Herculaneum and Pompeii, rather than go as tourists always 
love to go in their wild rush, by chemin de fer which takes you 
there in hysterical speed and shakes you far worse than driv- 
ing over the cobblestoned old streets. And with the prodigious 
picturesque still beckoning, you are brave indeed do you bid 
your jeliu halt at last in midst of the modem town of Resina 
— modern, only because it lies over the more ancient Herculan- 
eum you must understand, but so old of itself that its old 
stones have witnessed scenes almost as wonderful as those of 
Herculaneum below. 

The popular story — the one which Dickens credits in his 
Italian Notes, you know — is that workmen while one day dig- 
ging a well in Resina suddenly came upon some of the old 
stone seats of the entombed theater. Thus was discovered the 
city founded by that most renowned of all heroes, Hercules, a 
thousand years gone by since, as that clever Dumas says, it 
was " overtaken by the lava, shrieked and writhed and died like 
Laocoon in coils of the serpent," 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 285 

But Baedeker — iconoclastic Baedeker! rejects this as far 
too thrilling and dares tell us the " well " was but prosaic shaft 
sunk in systeinatic attempt to find this ancient Heracleria of the 
Greeks and that efforts to excavate the city had been made even 
before this, but all attempts without success since Herculaneum 
was buried by stream of mud forming mantle of much greater 
hardness than the lava shroud which encased Pompeii. And so 
on — one really knows not how very prosaic Baedeker can be, 
until they consult him here on these divine Parthenopian shores 
where all is picturesque and full of mysterious charm — all 
except his flaming guide books ! 

But whatever true version of its discovery, we found the place 
most worthy a visit. To the contrary that Dumas who boldly 
declared most ardent antiquarian could not desire more than an 
hour there ! And there seem to be many of his opinion, as com- 
paratively few tourists ever trouble to visit Herculaneum — 
indeed we've met many a one who never heard of the place! 
We were quite alone in our explorations this morning — this 
being a free day and weather divine, you can judge for your- 
self how popular this excursion ! And no doubt there are many 
American women who would much prefer never seeing the 
famous old theater rather than descend alone with loquacious 
guide, down hundreds of dark stairs with turns like Aladdin's 
cave, till they were heaven knows how many feet underground. 
But we ourselves know the people of these Neapolitan shores 
far too well to ever have misgivings. Neapolitans, under their 
own sun, are as full of courtesy, as their sky is full of blue, 
and our guide of this mioming with clear-cut profile of those 
who live in Herculaneum frescoes of the Museum, had air of a 
courtier and went to no end of trouble to walk backwards and 
bend his flickering torch that each step might be clear to the 
Eccellenze. The theater, though only a small portion is as yet 
excavated, is estimated as being full twice the size of the larger 
theater of Pompeii and from here several of the most world- 
renowned bronzes have been taken — but Baedeker will tell you 
all these prosaic items ! 

Other ruins which are open are at some little distance from 
the theater, though if excavations were made straight from 
Basilica to theater, it would be but a step. As is now, one comes 



286 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

up the many, many old steps, into Resina once again and then 
make their way down a tiny, tortuous old street of that swarm- 
ing town with dozens and dozens of fleet-footed children rush- 
ing to beg soldi, " 'per Vamor di Dio/' and so truly hungry and 
pinched do they look that as one's soldi vanish, one is glad to 
vanish too, into the gate leading into the portion of the excavated 
Herculaneum, which like Pompeii, stands forlorn and all the 
more dead in aspect because of being in the very open sunshine. 
And never was there greater contrast within such narrow limits. 
One moment you are in the swarming, malodorous little street 
of Resina with its dozens of dirty ragaszini, glassy-eyed goats 
and fowls. Old women croning mysterious songs of the sea 
huddled over braziers on which a mysterious fritto misto is 
lazily cooking itself in honor of the festa. Old fishermen in 
long-tasseled caps selling snails for a Sunday soup. Girls of 
a beauty to set artists mad for joy, combing one another's hair. 
Little wine-shops filled with gesticulating men and frenzied 
screams of mora such as echoed no doubt in Herculaneum long, 
long ago — brown fingers flashing with dexterity inconceivable, 
for are not ten centimes at stake? Boys on way to ov^en Avith 
loaves of unbaked bread on long boards balanced mysteriously 
on their heads. Dozens of men, women and children rushing 
to doorways and balconies as news sweeps down the street that 
the guide of Ercolano is coming with two signore. Gesii Maria! 
but signore americane! Exclamations on everything from our 
parasols to our boots, fly as thick and fast among the adult por- 
tion of the street as do clamors for soldi from the children. 
Outside all is mad, swarming life. A step; the gate closes. 
One stands in city of the dead. So dead and desolate that the 
cry of our guide to his young son seemed much like the " Vale! 
Vale! Vale! ** which once sounded here as mourners followed 
a body out to the Street of Tombs. " Farewell till the day 
Nature permits us to follow thee ! " was the long-drawn wailing 
cry. Yet to leave the blue skies and gold sunshine of this fair 
shore, to follow even a dear friend into the unknown, must have 
been no very alluring prospect were the skies of the blue, and 
the sun of the gold we know here to-day. 

Baedeker can tell you all about the Villa of the Papyri with its 
wonderful library of papers and statue of Drunken Faun and 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 287 

Six Dancing Girls; and the House of Argo and Basilica or 
Forum — whichever he please to call it ! — much better than I, 
who am likely to interlard descriptions with fantastic rhapsodies 
on sun, sky and sea till you know not whether you be hearing 
of public baths or private villel For Herculaneum's situation 
by the sea was quite worthy selection by that renowned Her- 
cules, and with site far superior to that of Pompeii, it is no 
wonder that the town was itself far superior in every way — it 
being a most fashionable resort of the Roman aristocrats who 
built their ville here rivaling those of far-famed Baia. Its 
bronzes, frescoes and mosaics are found to be much more beau- 
tiful than those of Pompeii, where after the year '63 much was 
sham, and polychrome frescoes are, even after these centuries of 
sleep, often so startlingly garish one can not doubt that Pom- 
peii held many vulgarians. It is joyful news to lovers of the 
beautiful that Herculaneum excavations are to be pushed with 
renewed zeal this Spring, the buildings of Resina standing over 
the buried city, having been bought by the Government. Yet 
excavations move but slowly here in this dolce far niente Cam- 
pania — especially as Young Italy with her coffers as empty as 
her hands are full of flowers, is so jealous of her treasures that 
she hesitates to accept aid from foreign nations. But who 
would blame her.f* 

And simply because the ruins of Herculaneum are so few, 
one takes an even keener interest in them than is possible at 
Pompeii. Here at Herculaneum all seems more sad and truly 
a citta morte, as well as city of the dead, since at Pompeii there 
are always tourists at every turn to break the silence and that 
mysterious spell which hovers o'er these once so gay, glad Cam- 
panian towns. At Herculaneum we were quite alone — only 
ourselves, our cicerone and his small boy who ran about pick- 
ing wild flowers for us which sprang amid the desolateness. 
A wise little fellow — that son of our cicerone, who remarked 
twice to his father during our visit, that Signora was as beauti- 
ful as an Altar decked for Easter. 

And if Signora was as beautiful as an Easter Altar, surely 
the day was as lovely as any Easter world has ever seen. Sky 
as blue as Sorolla paints his seas. Sunshine like the gold of 
mysterious Etruscan tombs. While from the higher portion of 



288 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 



■I 



the buried city one had sight of the scintillating sapphire of the 
sea, through whose blue, long ago, the " Castor and Pollox " once 
rode past the Herculaneum port of Retina bound for Pozzuoli. 

So, too, though bound in opposite direction, had the illustrious 
Ulysses years before swept by this same Retina, returning from 
the Infernal Regions. His egress as well as his descent having 
been no doubt through that same Lake Avernus where JEneas 
descended with the Sibyl of Cumae to visit the lower world. 
For it was there on those divine shores of the Phlegraean Plains 
that Ulysses counseled with gods and goddesses and was warned 
by the venerable Circe against the sirens who dwelling on an 
isle off that enchanting Costeria d'Amalfi, charmed all men who 
passed with the magic of their singing. So that prepared for 
their wiles he cut — perhaps even as he sailed past this city of 
Hercules — wax into small pieces and melting it in the palm 
of his hand by heat of this powerful Neapolitan sun, anointed, 
as he drew near the Sirens' isle, the ears of all his men. And 
they in turn bound him hands and feet fast to the mast as the 
Goddess Circe had commanded. Though in spite her warning, 
so sweet was the Sirens' song in Ulysses' ears as they rowed 
past, that he signed for his men to loose him. Yet they but 
bound him the tighter and unloosed Inm not till the Sirens' sweet 
song of flattery to tlie illustrious hero was far behind and only 
the terrible Scylla and Charybdis to be faced. 

Both St. Paul and Ulysses must have looked out as they 
sailed by, upon this satanic Jesuve which towers just back of 
Herculaneum, and were much impressed, no doubt, with sight 
of the noble old mountain forever bathing its feet in the blue 
waters of the bay. Though not so impressed as they might 
have been had they known his true satanic nature, and the mass 
of menacing little fire demons he even then concealed within 
his bosom. 

We, tliis morning, might have been almost as deceived as 
thev, for Vesuve, his broad shoulders draped with tunic of snow 
to hide his lava coat, and his demoniacal fires cunningly veiled 
in cloud of serenely rising smoke of pearly gray, looked calmly 
benignant, down on the smiling world at his feet. And yet, — 
as one looked again, one realized that the comers of his mouth 
unmistakably turned down in sarcastic fashion like that Demos- 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 289 

thenes of the Museumi, and one wondered how the swarming 
little coast towns dared to laugh and be so gay lest they provoke 
him to anger. Man seems mere pigmy here in the shadow of 
the great mountain, and that not because of its thirty miles of 
circumference nor yet because of its 4000 and some hundred feet 
of height above the sea, so much as because of that mysterious 
sense of awe cast o'er all who live within its sight. Uncon- 
sciously one finds themselves often gazing across to where the 
Vesuvius rises so grim and somber above the laughing waters of 
the bay. And even though one has lingered here in Naples 
for weeks and months, the mountain^ towers over the smiling city 
far too grandiosely ever to be ignored. The same mysterious 
charm which one knows stealing into Bay of Napoli and view- 
ing for first time this " peak of hell rising from Paradise " 
grows none the less as days fly by and they tarry here in the 
Paradise of Parthenope. 

'Tis said that poor Leopardi, pessimistic through his thousand 
maladies and not through any blame of this gay Napoli, used 
to sit by the hour looking across to the great mountain,. Did it 
stand to him, perhaps, as the capricious destiny which he be- 
lieved ruled the world .^ Or was it not on Vesuve which he 
gazed, so much as the Apennines swimming beyond ? — reminding 
him of his sad boyhood days at Recanati when he stole from his 
father's great gloomy palazzo to where he could sight their 
green and purple heights. 

We were reminded of him as we drove over the country road 
this morning and a black-eyed ragazza darted from behind a 
hedge to throw some of the yellow broom into the carriage — 
the humjble broom which Leopardi loved since it is the first 
thing to grow in these desolate lava fields around Vesuve, it 
being full three centuries before land covered with lava flow can 
be turned to agriculture again. Leopardi sweetly sung its 
praise, you know, in his last ode, La Ginestra — 

" Now all around, a wide ruin spreads where 
Thou standest, graceful flower, and as if 
Through pity for this desolateness 
To heaven thou sendest perfume so sweet 
That the desert is made to rejoice." 



290 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

And as the solitary broom making glad the waste lava fields 
brought reminder of Leopardi, so did a lone eagle circling high 
in the heavens round Vesuve bring reminder of that meek and 
lowly Saint Francis who envied the bird who could fly so near 
to God. Perhaps that sweet Saint himself once traveled o'er 
these same Campanian roads as he came a pilgrim to the shrine 
of St. Andrew at Amalfi. Indeed 'tis very probable, and if 'twas 
in this season of glad returning Springtime that he came a pil- 
grim among the sun-scorched children of Magna Grceca, how 
sweet his praise of God must have been sung along the way ! 

The rows and rows of fruit trees enveloped now in their snowy 
clouds of bloom are like some long veiled procession of Holy 
Thursday following the Blessed Sacrament — the sun itself 
like Sacred Host in wondrous monstrance of precious gold and 
many jewels. The country is as overflowing with wondrous 
beauty as the little towns of picturesque — beauty which drives 
you into rhapsodies and color which as Kipling says, " gets into 
your throat." But Spring returns slowly, slowly in this sweet 
land of adagio, and should you start soon for these Parthenopian 
shores you may even yet follow the sweet Campanian roads 
before the peach and almonds have flung off" their billowy veils. 

Yet before one realizes it — so fast do the days fleet away 
in this Paradise — at feet of the now bloom-veiled trees, fields 
of the gran turco will flourish, with scarlet and rose Campanian 
poppies climbing up boldly to kiss the tasseled ears. The trees 
will bend heavy with their fruits waiting to deck gay stalls of 
many a Neapolitan market. Yet heavier still, with the miles 
and miles of vine strung cleverly from tree to tree — vines on 
which the grapes for the famous Vesuvian wines will ripen, hot 
with imprisoned sunshine and heavy with its gold, till carried 
off" to be pressed by the sun-browned feet of laughing contadini 
in the old Virgilian way. Oh, the wild joy which even thoughts 
of Campanian vintage bring! The odor of ripe grapes ever in 
one's nostrils ! Picturesque peasants of poetic land — people 
of olive skin and hair which holds the purple of Campanian 
grapes and glints of the Campanian sun in its black. Great 
vineyards holding heaven knoweth how many o'erflowing flasks 
of golden draughts. Glad songs of the people as they pile 
high the vintage baskets and the ox carts. And songs still more 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 291 

glad as with empurpled legs they gayly tread the wine-press. 
Ah^ dolce tempo! 

One realizes how sweet can be this simple, yet so subtle, old 
Virgilian life of Italy as they bowl over the joyous white ribbon 
roads of the South — roads as smooth as the Cararra marble 
Michelangelo loved, winding in and out of all sorts of enticing, 
enchanting places. And then at last is deposited for their 
breakfast at a little trattoria with marvelous view of the sea — 
a little trattoria, it is whispered, where Camorristi planned the 
awe-inspiring Cuocolo murder of last summer. And overleaped 
themselves perhaps, since arrests are being made thick and fast 
this Spring and venerable Neapolitan Camorra which has flour- 
ished since the day gods and sirens deserted these shores — or 
at least since the thirteenth century when the Spanish came to 
overrun the land — bids fair to hear its death knell sounded in 
this twentieth. Though should you ask F. concerning these bold 
Camorristi, he might perhaps answer you somewhat as he does 
mention of these notorious assassins Italy has known — that 
they have been, practically to a man, emigrants and imported 
their anarchism from America! Mamma mia! 

Yet, native or imported, one realizes Camorristi of this Napoli 
are true artists if they chose our tavern of this morning for 
their satanic plotting of last summer's daring murder. For 
the vino del paese of our great straw-encased flask held Neapoli- 
tan sunshine till it had turned as smooth and sweet as that 
delicious wine of the triplication of Est which once caused the 
bibulous old Bishop to drink thereof at Montefiascone till he 
died — no doubt you've heard the tale many a time ! While the 
coffee which followed our frutta and fromaggio (never- failing 
end to a mid-day breakfast here in Naples!) surely followed 
after that old Brazilian receipt — " black as night, hot as Hades, 
strong as the d and as sweet as love." 

But one forgot Camorra the moment they were seated, for 
just across sat — surely Tasso himself! Mysterious, aesthetic 
Torquato Tasso, disguised for the nonce as peasant. And if it 
was but his ghost resting as he toiled over the Campanian roads, 
to seek shelter with Cornelia at Sorrento — still it was surely 
Tasso and none other. For he, you know, as well as Saint 
Francis and such hosts of mighty men whom the world loves to 



292 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

sing, once journeyed o'er these Campanian roads, a disguised 
and haggard fugitive, tormented by a sprite who destroyed his 
precious books and papers. Or was he but feigning madness 
to save his head — obliged through some mysterious fate to 
play the fool's role? CM sa? But 'twas he, wasn't it? who 
claimed " Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly." 

I knew our Tasso at once, in spite his clever peasant disguise, 
for he twisted his " hairs of angels " round his fork with a 
grace learned only from years at court. A grace and dexterity 
I dared not attempt to imitate — at least not before the all- 
seeing eyes of our gargon of an impossible degree of beauty. 
An Antinous by name, if one might judge his pensive expression 
and great beauty by that Museum statue of the young god — 
that mysterious youth, voluntary and vicarious victim who by 
subtle sorcery became a star for that splendor loving old 
Hadrian. Though as we lingered over our coffee — hot as 
Hades ! — he flew to wait on a couplej of ruddy Germans in man- 
ner altogether foreign to that divine Antinous to whom we dared 
comipare him. Tedeschi of green Alpine hats and prodigious 
corpulence, equaling that noble Duke of Bracciano who was so 
fat he had to have special dispensation excusing him from 
genuflection in presence of the Holy Father. Yet love of lire 
— or I should say soldi — when one is poor, but poor ! would 
perhaps permit of even an Antinous smiling on rotund, ruddy 
Tedeschi who eat heaven knoweth how many times a day ! and 
ever with a knife. Though so skillfully I will confess, that they 
seem never to cut their throats as one might almost hope for! 

And then later in the day there was the little chiesa where 
we paid two soldi each for a chair, yet knelt on the hard floor 
alongside the devout peasants who said the Rosary with great 
fervor. A small tucked-away chiesa where the incense could 
not drown the garlic, and where colors have all faded like the 
paper flowers which deck Madonna's altar. Though she, in 
robe as blue as Neapolitan sky, looks down ever-compassionate 
on all who lift their hearts to her, and if her sweet eyes are full 
of pity, who shall say it is not only because of the Seven Sor- 
rows, but also because she beholds children of the Campania 
knowing far more of her than of her Son waiting in humility 
upon their Altars. 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 293 

And if we were the first to leave the humble little chiesa it 
was not because of all-pervading garlic, nor yet because the 
old priest took snuff and used a red bandanna, but only because 
we were far from the city gates of Napoli and, like the sun- 
rises with their sudden fanfares of dazzling rays, sudden also 
are the sunsets of this coast. " The sun is impatient and fierce 
like everyone else in these parts and goes down head-long," 
wrote that exaggerating Dickens from Italy, you remember. 
" Run to fetch your hat — and it's night." 

And true, we had started none too soon, for there was the sun- 
set of violet and coral and amber as lovely as the violets and 
coral and amber of the Chiaia shops and then, in a moment, all 
had been plunged majestically into the Tyrrhene depths, scat- 
tering its gold across the waters. Strange hush and mystery 
fell o'er the land — proof that 'tis the glad, bold sun which 
makes these people glad and bold. Capri swam an island of 
jade in the twilight and in the rear, enveloped in purple haze, 
somber and strange, • , 

** Vesuvius shows his blaze an usual sight 
For gaping tourists " — 

as Lord Byron somewhere says. Though his words give you no 
idea of the awe those fires of chalcedony inspire in one's breast 
as night falls o'er this Campania. One is glad to dash clatter- 
ing o'er the cobblestones back into this old Napoli where its mad 
life rushes out from every street to welcome one. Though high- 
hung in the air, and looking down upon the reckless city, San 
Martino ever broods in solemn state o'er the vandalism which 
has left her desecrated — yet is not powerful enough to lay 
her white-robed ghosts which flit even at this moment to their 
midnight Matins. 



Naples, the paradise of Italy 
As that is of the earth/* 



— Fletcher 



4- •!• 



TOM. 



Napoli, March — 

C'EST MOI! — come to sketch here on the Vomero hillside 
from where one looks across to San Martino brooding over 
the land as some huge falcon, and down on Naples — the great 
orange and mandarine terraced city, its buildings of pink and 
mauve and chrome yellow glistening in the sun as they climb 
straight up from the water — liquid lapis lazuli this morning 
and sparkling as though it were so many glittering spangles. 
Che hella giornata! 

True, I am not sketching and sit here idly scribbling you, 
but what will you here in Napoli? If you are happy, you lie in 
the sun and dream, so Ouida says, you remember; and if you are 
unhappy, what better can you do ? Sol who am happy — happy 
for sheer joy of living in this Italian printemps, am idle. And 
here there is nothing to break the Old World spell of enchant- 
ment. True, Naples overflows with tourists — tourists of all 
nationalities; tourists seeing the poverty and sin rather than 
hearing the laughter and song; criticising, fault-finding, rush- 
ing. But so rushed, grazie a Dio, that they have no time to 
learn of the joy to be found in lingering in the tortuous stair- 
streets with their dark-eyed smiling people, or in idling away 
the golden hours in the Villa stretched along edge of the tur- 
quoise sea — much the less any time for dreaming in some such 
sweet spot as this on the Vomero hillside. 

Maria, as gentle hint, lest I cover all my paper in scribble 

to you and there be none for sketching, has opened box of pencils 

and paints under my very nose. Yet alas, one cannot bring to 

paper Neapolitan sun-satiate air or Old World mystery, and 

perhaps, after all, there will be no sketching this morning. 

294 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 295 

And^ indeed, Mr. T. will be first to forgive, for if he with all 
his talent has never been able to catch to his satisfaction, any 
of this Spell which pervades this city of the Siren, what indeed 
am I able to grasp of all this mystery and hidden sweetness 
hanging o'er the land this Spring morning? 

Ah, but Primavera here is intoxicating truly! The happy, 
smiling land seems growing the Spring for the whole world — 
just as directly at my feet, a Neapolitan gardener working amid 
his million blossoms, seems to be growing the flowers for all 
Naples. 

So enchanting his garden that almost would I change places 
with the dark-eyed, barefoot girl in red skirt and orange corset, 
who works beside him, cutting great armfuls of the flowers for 
market and deftly arranging them in the panniers of two little 
from that wonderful city of Nuova York, and that at the hotel 
doscopes of luxuriant color. As she works, she breaks into 
song, for this Italian Springtimie, with its sunshine and flowers, 
seems challenging the whole world to dare be unhappy. 

She has not spied us yet. When she does she will come shyly 
up, off*ering one of her carnations and with graceful Neapoli- 
tan frankness, admire no doubt this brown velvet suit of mine 
— it seems these women of Naples always do whenever I wear 
it, in spite their traditional love for brighter colors. And Maria 
will explain with gracious condescension that the suit has come 
from that wonderful city of Nuova York and that at the hotel, 
the illustrious signorina has other suits and gowns and hats — 
che-e-e but molto, molto! from that same elegant Nuova York. 
If I lay down your letter — and of course I will! — we will 
soon be in animated chatter of this and that; my gown and her 
flowers, her sweetheart and which are to be the numeri fortunati 
drawn in tombola this Saturday, and — Dio mio! what not? 
And I shall learn more of Neapolitan life than dozens of travel 
books could ever tell and when reluctantly she leaves us and 
returns to her song and patient toil in the garden, it is I who 
am the richer. Though she will not guess it and may kneel 
this very evening before Madonnina, praying that she, too, may 
sometime have brown velvet gown such as wore the signorina 
americana — little dreaming in her simple peasant heart that 
la signorina thought her gown of sun-mellowed red and faded 



296 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

orange corset (worn outside as girdle) quite the most clianning 
costume in the world — far more appropriate for this warm- 
tinted^ Old World Naples than brown velvet. 

You see I know just how it will all happen since Maria and 
I and this battered brown corduroy velvet suit have often come 
to sketch and idle away some of these golden mornings up here 
on the Vomero hillside, and there is always sure to be one of 
these market gardens with a brown-eyed girl or two working 
near-by. 

For the Neapolitans are people of the soil. Each square 
foot of land is turned to advantage here. Gardens of arti- 
chokes — beloved of Neapolitans, and cauliflower of wondrous 
hues and asparagus and all sorts of greens — each little garden 
marvel of fertility though the soil is far from naturally fertile 
and the gardens have often to be made literally by hand. 
Especially is this true of these enchanting little gardens grow- 
ing flowers for the market — such devotion as is lavished on 
them ! Yet what would you ? Flowers are a necessity of life — 
a necessity which poverty, no matter how bitter, cannot extin- 
guish. 

And 3^et there are those who will tell you that this Naples 
with her modern streets and new buildings springing up here 
and there and her bustling port where torpedo boats and great 
ocean liners and East India merchantmen and vessels from every 
port of the world are herded together, is trying hard to imitate 
that great American city lying just opposite across the Atlantic. 
But ah! we who have lingered here for long, know far diifer- 
ently. And though this Naples may truly be the New York 
of Italy, still how happily, how utterly, she fails — if indeed 
she ever try ! — in her attempt to imitate that great New York 
of over the sea, and must remain this same Old World city which 
the Siren founded. A passionate, picturesque city of narrow 
stair-streets full of goats and greens and gay flowers and giant 
cheeses and wrinkled old cobblers and dark-eyed coppersmiths 
working with their shining burnished copper, and debonair 
young vendors gesticulating a bargain with gossipy women in 
faded gowns of old red or blue and tinkling ear-rings. An 
enchanting city with gardens tucked away by side of every 
palazzo — gardens of flowers and orange and mandarine which 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 297 

spill their fragrance over tall walls into humblest of streets. 
A city^ the dirtiest in Europe — well perhaps! yet by far most 
picturesque and most wonderfully beautiful. This Napoli of 
gods and sirens and traditions and mysteries, mirrored in the 
deep sapphire of loveliest bay in the world and basking under 
turquoise cielo which stretches up to God. What contrast in- 
deed, with your sepia colored New York some would vainly believe 
Naples attempting to imitate! 

Maria, with her brother Pasquale, adores Mr. T. and knowing 
I promised to do a sketch for him this morning, persisted in 
calling attention to the fact until in sheer desperation I attempted 
to appease her conscientious soul by sketching this majestic 
Vesuvius — brooding wickedly this morning over this laughing 
city as though he might be diabolically planning suddenly to 
annihilate us all. In Japan one seldom gives second thought 
to Fuji; but here this Vesuvius seems always at hand — domi- 
nating, brooding over the land. What secrets are hid in his 
mysterious breast? 

Yet it seemed impossible to catch with water colors and brush, 
that subtle light of this Neapolitan sunshine on the snow still 
capping the mountain — strange contrast to this warm, smiling 
Napoli at my feet with its million flowers. Maria, I can see, 
is far from being satisfied and impatiently inquires why I do 
not sketch the garden just below with its warm wealth of vivid 
color. And though it is difficult to withstand disapproval in 
Maria's Beatrice Cenci eyes, you see I am quite idle — scribbling 
you of this and that, making tout ensemble truly wonderful, no 
doubt, but one which you, caro mio, will gallantly declare, as 
you always do these rhapsodical Neapolitan impressions of mine, 
une lettre charmante! 

But here comes a herd of goats — an animated impudent little 
dairy. The herder, a picturesque old fellow with his large hoop 
ear-rings of gold glistening in the sun. Perhaps we can coax 
him to pose — if sketch I must ! 

• •••••••• 

But no — 'twas useless, though Maria and I both asked in 
our most persuasive Neapolitan patois. Madonna! how it was 
unfortunate. But la signorina must really excuse him. Ecco! 



298 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

la signorina might see for herself that his goats were tired — A 
but tired! They had been climbing palazzi stairways in the" 
aristocratic town of Vomero since early in the morning. But 
truly they must have rest before making early start on their 
evening rounds, and to-day is festa and crowded streets of 
Vomero make progress with flock of eighteen goats, slow — but 
slow! 

Doubtless the fact to-day is festa explains the wonderful gay 
corset of the girl in the garden just below. She, with her flow- 
ers, would make a far more picturesque model than the old herder 
with his goats, though he was anxious to pose to-morrow if la 
signorina could use him. He shook his head sadly when Maria 
carefully explained that la signorina could not promise to be 
here to-morrow — the signorina americana made no plans for 
the future and might be sketching again on this Vomero hillside 
or climbing Vesuvius or sailing out on the blue water of the 
bay — the Buon Dio alone knew! And he and Maria struck up 
lively conversation in voluble tongue, relative, very likely, to 
capricious ways of Americans, but it was rudely interrupted 
by inquisitive patriarchal goat with glassy yellow eyes who 
thought to find in the paint box some delicate morsel and had to 
be forcibly removed by the herder. 

Later. 

The girl of the garden to blame for this last interruption! 
Her work finished and gardener with little panniered donkeys 
buried in their loads of flowers, off for the city, she came up to 
us just as I knew she would. I did this little sketch — she 
proved to be even more picturesque than I thought. 

Her name is Zita — after little Santa Zita, the patron of 
housemaids. But Zita of to-day wisely prefers warm sunshine 
and flowers rather than work in one of these chilly palazzi, 
and on her festa next month is to wed a fellow of a flower 
market on the Chiaia — a fellow motto intelligento, she assured 
us proudly. Perhaps the very same sun-browned young god, 
vendor of lilies and violets, camellias and heliotrope, who de- 
lights in thrusting his handsomest bouquets into our carriage 
each time he spies us driving by — knowing well his radiant 
smile too captivating to allow of our ever tossing his flowers 
back though we may be at that very moment brave with corsage 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 299 

bouquets of our own choosing. Yes — doubtless 'tis very same 
fellow since Zita said he was molto intelligento! 

They plan to go to New York as soon as they can save enough 
to make the trip — she spoke as though it were somewhere a 
million miles away and asked many questions. Did the 
signorina think the rich, but so rich, millionaire people in New 
York would buy her flowers.'' Ah, but surely, I answered, if 
she wore the red, sun-mellowed gown and gay orange corset 
such as she had donned to-day in honor of festa. And would 
the signorina say, was it true indeed Americans paid one hundred 
lire a dozen for roses and would there be any difficulty in find- 
ing a little garden spot in New York where they could raise 
the flowers they plan to sell — at one hundred lire a dozen, I 
suppose ! But la signorina hadn't heart to explain she thought 
it might be rather beyond their purse to find a spot for market 
gardening right in heart of your throbbing New York; and that 
in making the corso along Fifth Avenue, one does not toss out a 
hundred lire for dozen roses with frequency one does lira here 
in Napoli! Poor Zita! I fear if ever she sails across the 
sea, she must turn housemaid after all — Santa Zita protect 
her! 

And then before we came home, we slipped into a little 
church in Vomero. Little church much loved by the poor, 
where in the sun-shotten shadows men and women knelt in 
rapt devotion, and the altar, in honor of the festa, was bril- 
liantly aglow with candles and sweet with many flowers — real 
flowers such as grew in the garden where Zita sung, and humble 
flowers made of paper and carefully arranged upon stems of 
real green leaves. And though tourists smile when they see 
these humble paper flowers adorning an altar, no doubt to 
JMadonna they be very sweet. Who knows what lo^dng fingers 
fashioned them? Yet there are but few churches here into 
which the tourists go, since here there are none of the great 
cold churches such as Rome is famed for — the churches here, 
rich in the Etruscan gold that shots the shadows, and hallowed 
by many fervent prayers, are places in which to kneel. And 
when one comes out again into the sunshine and the world, 
Italy seems all the sweeter. 

" Thou knowest, little signorina, why the sun shines so bright 



300 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 



1 



— non e vero? " Maria inquired raising parasol for me as we 
came out into the vivacious sunshine this morning. The " little " 
being for affection's sake here in Italy you knovr and little 
bearing on age or stature. 

"But no!" I confessed sadly — "thou knowest Maria mia? " 
Ah^ but surely yes ! and with many interpolation of this and 
that, she told me of how it was the moon who looked down from) 
heaven on the great Mystery of the Blessed Virgin giving birth 
to the precious Bambino Gesu, assisting with her sweet soft light. 
And out of envy that he was not permitted to be present, the sun 
has shone brighter ever since in effort to eclipse the more humble 
moon whom God chose to shed the light on that Holy scene in 
Bethlehem. This being some sweet old convent legend — one of 
the many Maria has repeated to my sympathetic ear. Indeed, 
'tis not for nothing we have Italian maid wearing the sweetest 
name woman may ever wear. 



Beautiful valley! through whose verdant meads 
Unheard the Garigliano glides along; — 
The Lirisy nurse of rushes and of reeds. 
The river taciturn of classic song. 

The Land of Labor and the Land of Rest, 
Where mediaeval towns are white on all 
The hillsides, and where every mountain's crest 
Is an Etrurian or a Roman wall. 

There is Aquinum, the old Volscian town. 
Where Juvenal was horn, whose lurid light 
Still hovers o'er his birthplace like the crown 
Of splendor seen o'er cities in the night. 

Doubled the splendor is, that in its streets 
The Angelic Doctor as a school-boy played. 
And dreamed perhaps the dreams, that he repeats 
In ponderous folios for scholastics made. 

And there, uplifted, like a passing cloud 
That pauses on a mountain summit high, 
Monte Cassino's convent rears its proud 
And venerable walls against the sky." 



— Longfellow 



* * 



TO G. 



Naples, March — 

WE'VE just returned from motor flight to Cassino. This be- 
ing the picturesque ochre-tinted little town nestling at 
foot of Monte Cassino and here the celebrated monastery in 
which St. Benedict, led to this lonely mountain spot by two 
ravens and two angels, founded his famous Order and Rule. 

We left early yesterday morning — out through the Porta- 

301 



SO^ CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

Capuana where groups of peasants, each a possible Masaniello, 
waited for the octroi to probe each cart searching for taxable 
goods. I was driving and made the run to Caserta in short 
time, though progress was necessarily slow for the many peasant 
carts loaded with oil and wine and greens, which we encountered 
for miles — each horse, mule or ox, decorated with long red 
fiocchi (tassels) to assist in warding off the Evil Eye. For, 
Corpo di Bacco! in that great swarming Napoli, who knows how 
many jettatori are to be met — ready to cast Evil Eye on man 
and beast alike? 

One has to drive slowly, for often the peasant perched high 
in his cart is wrapt in sleep and barking of the little dog on 
seat beside him, arouses him too late to move to side of the 
road. And then, too, rule of the road itself is rather uncertain, 
for while in Naples one keeps to the right, on country roads 
order is reversed — just where rule changes no one seems to 
know ! Doubtless it keeps poor Mercury, guardian of roads and 
travel, ever on alert here to avert accidents. 

I was still holding to city rule when about +wo miles out the 
gate a debonair wine merchant driving three gayly bedecked 
steeds harnessed abreast and taking right of road himself, ad- 
vised la signorina with eloquent shouts accompanied with much 
brandishment of long whip, to keep to the left. But once to 
the left and scarcely a hundred yards away, on meeting an old 
sandaled peasant walking beside his creamy oxen, I was waved 
to the right and the Holy Saints called upon to witness the 
sheer recklessness of forestieri. Did he call down malediction 
of Heaven upon my head also, I forgive him — he was so pic- 
turesque with his great hoop ear-rings of gold dancing in the 
sunlight as he vehemently gesticulated. What is it, I wonder, 
makes us so in love with everything Italian? 

At Caserta we stopped for what we expected to be the usual 
early breakfast of coffee and rolls with some officer friends 
who knew of our coming. But having heard marvelous tales 
of the early breakfasts to which Americans are addicted, they 
had had prepared a sumptuous repast of fruits, a wonderful 
sweet frittata (omelet) concocted with dates and figs, a salad 
— and this at barely eight o'clock! — and delicious English jam 
to be eaten with grissini, the long crisp sticks of bread. A 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING SOS 

veritable feast after our ride in the keen early air, though 
doubtless never before in all history of Caserta was such break- 
fast served at eight o' the morning. 

From Caserta we made the run of sixty odd miles to Cassino 
in less than three hours, though the country was so sweet that 
at times we drove no faster than had we been jogging along in 
little open carrozella. Here between Caserta and Cassino, one 
crosses the Campania — said to be most fertile region of all 
Italy, if not of all Europe, and yielding after three thousand 
years of continuous use, two harvests of grain and one of hay 
in same year. This, too, in addition to dense orchards and 
vineyards ! The peach and almond trees are now heavy with 
their lavish bloom — odd contrast to the snow which glistens 
on crest of the Apennines. 

Indeed these Campanian almond trees seem truly dropped 
from Paradise. Fragile, exquisite trees which bloom before 
they put out their leaves. A gentle bloom of pink, over, — or 
perhaps 'tis under.'' — their snowy whiteness. As faint blushes 
of a bride seen through her misty veil, Mr. T. poetically de- 
scribes them. And so apt his fancy, that it seemed bridal pro- 
cession followed, as we, the sweet Italian road — each bride 
redolent with perfume of Primavera. In the trees and by the 
wayside, thousands of birds were singing — fledglings perhaps, 
many generations removed, of those same sweet birds St. Francis 
called " my little sisters," and to whom he once stopped to 
preach the sermon as he passed over the Tuscan roads with his 
Lady Poverty. 

And so we followed the white road until we came to Santa 
Maria di Capua Vetere — town situated on site of the ancient 
city of Capua, once rivaled in size by only Rome. Now it is 
a dirtily picturesque place with streets filled with dozens of 
chickens and pigs and bambini which we barely escaj>ed mur- 
dering as we ran through the town. For while no stock is al- 
lowed to roam in Italy and country roads are paradise for motor- 
ists, in small towns streets are always o'erflowing with goats 
and pigs and turkeys and other fowls who boldly take posses- 
sion and are not in least inclined to move for a motor car, 
though one might suspect from the eager manner in which in- 
habitants of Capua ran to catch glimpse of us, that a touring 



304 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

car does not every day find way on to their ancient cobblestoned 
streets. We should have made a detour ourselves, but for fact 
we intended stopping to visit the Amphitheater of the place and 
changed our minds only after we had driven on to the rough 
pavemients — cobblestones (and Italy, you know, go hand in 
hand! But dodging chickens and pigs and fowls and bambini 
and bumping over cobblestones was quite worth while, simply 
to see the smiling brown-eyed people flocking to windows and 
doors to call after us some gay banter. For in spite poverty, 
they, like the Neapolitans, have held a smile in their eyes — 
these people of ancient Capua. And though they are so very 
poor, who knows to what second Raphael or Dante or Caruso 
we tossed our soldi? or what famous Cardinal or Pope of the 
future we came near running over in form of ragged ragaszino 
playing in the street? 

His Holiness, you know, was once a poor peasant boy — poor 
as the poorest perhaps here in Capua. Often when a school- 
boy, 'tis said, he would return home after walking several miles 
carrying a bag full of books, and his father would say, '' Guise, 
take the donkey out to grass for we have no fodder." And the 
lad, though hungry himself and tired from the long walk, 
would cheerfully take the halter in one hand and his Herodotus 
in the other and set off again. After the little ass had eaten 
his fill, if the boy who was to be future Pontiff had an equally 
good meal, he was fortunate truly. And who knows but that 
it may be from Capua that some Holy Father of the future 
may come — perhaps some very piccolo in wooden shoes who 
played in the street this morning and called '' Buon* giorno" 
as we made our way slowly through the town. 

We came through again to-day on our return that we might 
visit the Amphitheater. It is a wonderful old ruin with dimen- 
sions nearly those of the Roman Coliseum and able to seat one 
hundred thousand. In many respects similar to that Amphi- 
theater at Pozzuoli and like that, has passages and dens much 
better defined than the Coliseum tourists rave over in Rome. 
Hannibal had winter quarters in this town during the Second 
Punic war and history of the place is as interesting as its 
ruins. 

A few miles beyond ancient Capua is the modern Capua — 



I 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 305 

very modern, you see, as it dates only from ninth century! It 
has a splendid Cathedral of the eleventh century with Holy 
Sepulchre by Bernini — that bold Neapolitan sculptor and 
architect whom is called by some a second Michael Angelo. We 
visited the Cathedral to-day, for yesterday the sweet Italian 
road claimed us and we ran without halting past modern, ninth 
century Capua and other picturesque villages — once flourish- 
ing cities founded centuries before Christ and rich even yet in 
antiquities. In Teano there is a magnificent feudal castle and 
some splendid old tombs discovered only last year. Crowning 
many the hilltops and mountains like ghosts of the glorious 
Past, castles and ruins of old Etruscan fortresses and walls 
stand somber and brooding, an isolated and lonely mountain 
spot being favorite site for building, even though the places 
seemed often quite inaccessible. 

But the road running through the luxuriant valley over which 
almond trees threw bridal veil, was far more enchanting than 
any ghostly ruin or picturesque little town. These sweet Italian 
roads — they've a charm all their own ! Some sweet, subtle 
charm found neither in France nor England and comparable 
with nothing in our own America. True, " A prudent traveler 
never disparages his own country," is a wise old Italian say- 
ing, but who can forget our own country roads with their flamr 
ing bill-boards ^ Here such a thing would be a sacrilege. Per- 
haps, as some novelist of our country has suggested, the black- 
eyed Italian himhi never cry for soothing syrups; yet on the 
other hand, a boldly lettered question asking if this or that soap 
has been used, F. suggested, might often be rather apt! Still, 
dirt — 'tis of Italy and picturesque! Picturesque like the peas- 
ants who waved at us from their . work in the fields — skirts of 
the women of sun and rain mellowed reds and blues and a gay 
handkerchief knotted about throat of a man here and there, 
making the brave dash of color without which these dark-eyed 
people would perhaps lose their fascination for artists, yet 
could never change their warm-hearted, winning ways. 

Before reaching Cassino itself we saw remains of another 
splendid Amphitheater — Cassino was once a flourishing Roman 
town and holds miany notable ruins. And it is upon ruin of 
ancient Cassino that the Mediaeval town of San Germano was 



306 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

founded — San Germano much noted in history and home of 
various famous Popes and Emperors. Sic transit gloria mundi! 
It was in 1871 that its ancient name of Cassino was resumed, 
yet if Mark Antony's ghost ever returns to wander about the 
town in which Cicero says he lived for time, what change he 
must see between ancient Casium and Cassino of to-day ! Sleepy 
and dreaming of centuries which have shot by like flaming rapiers. 

We halted at our Inn near the public fountain where women 
knelt beating their linen, just as Angelus of mid-day rung out 
o'er the land. Our host was a veritable god Bacchus himself, 
and unbidden, brought out the red wine of the country for our 
refreshment, while F. consorted with signora, his wife, concern- 
ing chickens alio spiedo for early lunch. 

Directly after which we set out for Monte Cassino — each 
gayly mounted on an ass, much to the wonder of our host and 
other neighbors who speculated as to why " Amierican million- 
aires " with automobile at command, should prefer to make the 
trip on backs of native donkeys. But blessed Saint Antony 
himself, our hostess explained loudly to the entire crowd gath- 
ered to see us off, was protector of donkeys, while the aiitomo- 
bilo was but invention of el Diavolo! Madonna mia! but the 
signori would not risk their precious lives going up Monte Cas- 
sino to visit the holy fathers in invention of the devil ! E vero! 
And besides, was it not upon an ass that Holy Madonna Her- 
self rode with Bambino Gesiilino in her arms during flight into 
Egypt? and for this does not the ass bear a cross forever on 
his back? E vero! 

The ride was charming, affording glimpses now and then of 
the ultramarine Tyrrhenian and exquisitely beautiful views over 
the broad fertile valley of the Liris of which Longfellow has 
so charmingly written in " Monte Cassino." Shrines to com- 
memorate the Benedictine story were scattered by the wayside 
like the flowers, and before the shrine of that sweet Saint 
Scholastica, Saint Benedict's beloved sister who followed him to 
his mountain monastery, I left the great corsage bouquet of 
double violets with which the officers had presented me at Cas- 
erta. 

At the venerable old Monastery it seemed as Longfellow has 
written in the poem, 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 307 

" The silence of the place was like a sleep. 
So full of rest it seemed." 

Where were the forty Benedictine monks and over two hundred 
pupils who now dwell there? — "the world forgetting, by the 
world forgot." Other than the lay brother who conducted us 
over the parts open to strangers, we saw only the Padre Guar- 
diano who meets the foreigners and two old padri who crossed 
the courtyard — so old and wedded to their holy life as to be 
quite impervious to the invasion of two American women. All 
was hushed as though at sweet mystic hour of vesper-song. 

The noble monastery, once one the richest and most famous 
in all Italy, is still a wonderful old place — pervaded even in 
this twentieth century with contemplative spirit of Saint Bene- 
dict. The Church is very rich — more magnificent in many 
respects, 'tis said, than St. Peter's in Rome. The Library too, 
holds priceless treasures in way of manuscripts and is widely 
celebrated, for the Benedictine, you know, is most learned of 
all religious orders. 

It is mainly on account of the wealth of literature which the 
Cassinesi have given and preserved to the world that their 
monastery is allowed to continue its existence to-day as sem- 
inary for priests and has been exempted from the complete 
confiscation which has befallen most other religious houses of 
Southern Italy. Crt:herw5se Monte Cassino Monastery might 
to-day be Museum or Military fortress, so the Padre Guardiano 
explained to us sadly as we sat in the visitors' refectory, sip- 
ping our tea before we started down the mountain. And we, 
who have so often seen the tourists with red guide books, flit- 
ting over San Martina and filling that holy old cloister with the 
world, knew what complete confiscation meant even better per- 
haps than the padre into whose sweet monastic life few tour- 
ists have ever broken. 

He was an old man, this padre — his face sweet with the holy 
mysteries of long cloistered life, far removed from the world, 
high among the purple Apennines. F. thought him, as St. 
Gregory described St. Benedict, " Learnedly ignorant and 
wisely unlearned." I loved him from the first and talked with 
him of this and that — quite forgetting the proverb impressed 



308 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 



n 



so strongly upon all Italian girls, " Bell* arti parrari picca 
— to speak little is a fine art. 

As we rode slowly down the mountain a profound peace — 
the peace of St. Benedict, seemed brooding o'er the whole land; 
just as it had touched our own lives and sent us out with a 
blessing. 

So hushed the land, it seemed as though there might be no 
human beings in the world other than ourselves, and that in the 
forests might lurk old forgotten gods and fauns and satyrs. 
For was not this entire region pagan and worshiping Apollo 
even in the sixth century when St. Benedict was led there by 
ravens and angels.^ But even as we were almost persuaded we 
saw evasive presences and strange timid creatures peeping out 
at us from among the trees, the evening bells throbbed out o'er 
the land in sweet Angelic Salutation, and though the sun was 
gone and the hills changed from rose to purple and dark shad- 
ows fell, the pagan gods were vanished. 

We slept at the little Cassino Inn — after late dinner served 
in grand style, each dish after it left the kitchen, being cere- 
moniously passed through a full half dozen pair of hands before 
it reached the table ! F.'s admonishment to our host while din- 
ner was being prepared, that he warn signora to go careful 
with the garlic, caused great consternation. Ecco! the signori 
americani liked him not — the garlic ! he sent word to signora. 
Scarce able to believe such astounding news signora herself ap- 
peared with palpitating bosom. Per Dio! — but the garlic, 
he was necessary ! How indeed would the soup or roast taste 
to the signori if there was no garlic? Ma che! the garlic — he 
was the foundation on which each good cook built her meal! 
Thus signora tragically. Evidently the dinner — with founda- 
tion of garlic ! — was already well under way, and prospects 
were not over-joyful to four hungry Americans. Yet we had 
all qualms for nothing. Each dish was quite palatable — nay, 
even delicious. Signora herself watched from the doorway with 
triumph as we ate of both soup and roast. ** The signori com- 
prehend, how the garlic — he is necessary? Non e vero? ** she 
sweetly inquired with wonderful smile. Ah, signora was correct 
— but correct ! we emphatically agreed. The garlic — he \s quite 
necessary ! Why garlic is masculine gender, while most all other 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING S09 

vegetables are feminine^ no one seems to know. Yet doubtless 
'tis because^ as signora, our Cassino hostess declared^ the garlic 
— he is the foundation ! 

Frightful as it may sound to your ears to hear of garlic as 
the foundation^ it is in reality only a suspicion which is gener- 
ally used even in these small inns. Italians are truly clever in 
culinary arts. Nowhere in the world will you find people who 
understand better the art of cooking meat. Nearly everything 
is roasted — open fire being used and meat basted frequently 
with olive oil. In the country inns this method is followed 
altogether and if one has but time to wait, one may sit down 
in even the most wretched little village to roast chicken and 
fresh green salad. This, with fruit and the vino del paese — 
what better would you ask? True, the wine has been pressed 
by the bare, bronzed feet of who knows how many olive-skinned 
contadini — but it is of Italy and Bacchus' very o^vn ! 

We were up early this morning for we had climbed early 
into the high white beds — the beds in even humble village inns 
are always exquisitely clean and sweet with linen white with many 
beatings at the public fountain and ironed smooth with great 
charcoal-heated irons weighing almost a ton. Throwing apart 
the little white curtains — ironed convent style into precise 
plaits, I discovered F. already had the car out and to the im- 
mense joy of the ragazzi of the whole town of Cassino, was 
allowing them to blow the great siren horn — one press of the 
bulb to each gamin! I should say there were several hundred 
waiting their turn when I looked out! Grown boys and men 
of all ages stood around also — all intent on the working of the 
horn, for 'tis not the wonderful mechanism of the engine — of 
that they care or know nothing — but the horn, which is 'piece 
de resistance of a motor car to these peasants. F., who is con- 
sidered molto, molto simpatico by these Italians, seemed to be 
enjoying the sport as much as any one. He declared the 
poveri piccoli might never again have such great pleasure as 
working the horn of an auto; but I strongly suspect he had 
designs of waking us as well. For were not all the women 
of Cassino up long ago and already busy in beating their linen 
or drawing great burnished copper jars of water which they 
carried home on their heads — their hands on their hips to 



310 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

preserve their balance. And although for us there was no linen 
to beat nor water to draw^ the sweet Italian road was calling. 

While signora laid the table for coffee out in the loggia over- 
looking the little garden of orange trees^ our host took us to 
see his sheep. His father's father had raised sheep — 
but sheep ! he told us proudly. Such wonderful sheep were 
they, that his father during the reign of the late Pope, 
had sent two of themi to be added to the special herd of 
fifty sheep which is kept for the Holy Father and from which 
all the Papal woolen garments are made. E vero — his were 
sheep ! But sheep e vero! we answered wisely, though to me 
they looked very mluch like hundreds of other sheep I've seen 
all my life. But thoughts that the roast we had so ruthlessly 
eaten last night was perhaps the lamb, though several genera- 
tions removed, of one of those very sheep sent to furnish wool 
for Papal garments, impressed us all tremendously. And when 
we left a little later in the morning, each huona mano which we 
slipped into palms of our host and smiling family, was perhaps 
rather larger than even " American millionaires " are expected 
to give and though none of us mentioned it, we were each doubt- 
less thinking that honor of eating the possible descendant of a 
sheep which had been sent to join the Papal herd, was not met 
with every day ! 

Leaving Cassino, we drove a few miles beyond to Aquino — 
once place of much importance, now a small picturesque town 
with splendid ruins, but noted only as birthplace of blessed St. 
Thomas Aquinas, the " doctor angelicus." The castle in which 
he was born is yet to be seen, for although Baedeker gives 
Roccasecca, three miles beyond Aquino, as the Saint's birth- 
place, letters from St. Thomas himself refer to Aquino as the 
place of his birth and such is accepted, it seems, by all who 
have delved deep into the matter. Someone should write and 
tell Baedeker, since 'tis said they are ever glad of corrections 
and will send a new guide book as thanks ! 

Near here too is the mountain castle, Loreto, which belonged 
to St. Thomas' family, and here the Saint, then but a small 
boy, took all the food in the family larder one day that he might 
give it to the poor. And as he was stealing out, his father saw 
him and commanded that he open his cloak and show what was 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 311 

concealed. But^ lo ! as he bravely threw back his cloak, a 
shower of roses fell from it to the ground — the food had 
miraculously disappeared. 

When only five years of age St. Thomas was sent to the Cas- 
sino Monastery where 'tis said his first question had been " Tell 
me, father, what God is." When twelve the fathers declared 
they could teach him nothing more and he was sent to Naples, 
where even then it was whispered he would astonish the age 
by his wisdom. Had they any such pupils now as St. Thomas 
Aquinas had been? we asked the old padre yesterday, and he 
answered us that Buon Dio permitted a monastery the honor of 
sending out but one saint such as St. Thomas. There were none 
in these days — he shook his head sadly. The giovanotti who 
were sent to them now, if they had the brains, had not the deep 
fervor and purpose in life such as had St. Thomas Aquinas; if 
they had the deep fervor, they had not the brains. Ma che 
vuole? Buon Dio permitted them, while other religious houses 
had been desecrated as Museums, to still hold their Church 
school for youth and send out into the world priests of consecra- 
tion. Perhaps, who knew.^ they might one day send out him 
who would some day be called to be Christ's Vicar on earth. 
From what more holy place indeed could future Pontiff go out, 
than from Monte Cassino monastery ? — builded there by St. 
Benedict, high above the world. 

At Aquino we were half way to Rome — only seventy- five 
miles away. Why turn back to Naples.^ F. asked. A telegram 
to Maria and she would pack some gowns and follow on the 
next express. Yet did he coax us to Aquino, thinking to tempt 
us with lure of Rome, he was mistaken. Naples with sweet 
and potent spell of the Siren, called us back. And so we came 
again over the road of yesterday, — the road over which Saints 
and Popes and kings and emperors have traveled and over which 
the billowy almonds threw again to-day their bridal veil of blos- 
soms. Through the Porta Capuana into Naples — this match- 
less, peerless Napoli! Forsooth we can well afford to snap our 
fingers at Rome. 



'' Nobody who has never seen the glorious Italian Churches 
can conceive of the power of the religion that has built them.** 

— Hawthorne 



* * 



TOM. 



Naples, March — 

CONTE C. and Marquis T. have been devoted cicerones to- 
day and we've spent the entire morning wandering here 
and there through the picturesque little streets squeezed in be- 
tween tall palazzi, to see this and that in these Neapolitan 
churches before we find F. has forcibly carried us off to Rome. 

First to hear the organ in the Church of Monte Oliveto — • 
a magnificent instrument of the cinquo-cento. An old maestro 
— friend of Conte C.'s, and one of the best in Naples, was 
there to play for us and as the rich sonorous music pealed out, 
men, women and little children from the street, stole in to listen 
and kneel in prayer. And though the maestro had come to play 
especially for us, we were only guests and these humble people 
were in their home — the only home so many of them know. 

This Monte Oliveto is of the ancient Benedictine Monastery 
of Monte Oliveto where Tasso was cared for during an illness 
and where he wrote part of his great Gerusalemne and contains 
wonderful art treasures of the early Renaissance, making it 
one the most prominent of all Neapolitan churches. There are 
many beautiful works from the hand of Giovanni da Nola — 
among them a statue of the Baptist which, although his first 
work, is much admired for its noble lines. And the different 
chapels and altars are each of great beauty. One chapel lias 
an exquisitely lovely presepio — far more delicate work than 
the one in San Martino. By Rosellino and as Vasari says, 
" the angels are singing with parted lips and so exquisitely fin- 
ished that they seem to breathe." 

From here we made our way through tortuous little streets 
filled with vegetable vendors and fruit merchants and bargain- 

312 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 313 

ing throngs, to the great Jesuit Church of Gesu Nuovo to see 
some famous frescoes, — by Ribera and Giordano, but the light 
was so poor that we did not stop long and crossed over to that 
wonderful old Santa Chiara known as the Pantheon of Naples. 

But before going into the Church, we sent a piccolo after a 
man to open the refectory of the adjoining convent — piccoli 
bob up here as frequently as heads of Hydra and are so de- 
lighted to do an errand for eccellenzi that for sheer joy they 
always turn hand-springs as they run. In the refectory of this 
suppressed Convent of Santa Chiara are famous Giottesque 
frescoes representing Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes — 
symbol of Franciscan charity. Though white-washed over in 
the seventeenth century that they might not be destroyed by 
invaders, they are still, even in almost ruined state, considered 
the most beautiful Giottesque frescoes in Naples, and while 
the light was so poor in Gesu Nuovo, here it streamed into the 
silent old refectory to great advantage, and we were able to 
make out the figures very cleverly — sweet Santa Chiara, that 
most faithful spouse of Christ, with her garland — St. Francis 
with his bag for bread on his shoulder, — and others. 

Perhaps, — who knows } — Giotto when he was a little shep- 
herd lad, often heard of how St. Francis only about seventy- 
five years before, had, with his bag of bread hung over his 
shoulder, gone over the white Tuscan roads, • distributing alms 
to all who asked and preaching to the people such sweet ser- 
mons of love for God that even the birds in the trees stopped 
their song to listen. Often perhaps had St. Francis, accom- 
panied by his Bride, his sweet Lady Poverty, come through the 
valley where a short century later the little Giotto watched his 
father's sheep. 

And it was one day as he tended the flock and amused him- 
self by drawing picture of one of the sheep on the slate rock 
with sharp stone for pencil, that Cimabue, the noble, came rid- 
ing by, you know, and seeing the lad and the sheep he had 
drawn and the others he had modeled from the damp Tuscan 
soil, became interested in the little fellow. Yet this was not 
enough proof of talent for Cimabue, the great artist who had 
all Florence at his feet. " Show me something more," he said 
to the lad. Whereupon the bold little Giotto picked up his 




S14 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

sharp rock and drew in the center of the Tuscan road, an " O " 
so wonderfully round that the great Cimabue was amazed. So 
it is to-day in Italy when anything is near perfection, that the 
expression, " Round as Giotto's ' O '/' is frequently heard. 

And this last proof of skill was quite sufficient for Cimabue 
and he begged the boy's father that he might take him to Flor- 
ence as his pupil. But once in Florence, the boy, instead of 
Byzantine types which artists had followed, boldly effected 
style of his own — giving action and expression to his figures. 
Great was Cimabue's amazement and soon it was as Dante wrote, 

" Cimabue thought to lord it over Painting's field ; 
But now the cry is * Giotto ' and his name's eclipsed." 

In the Church of Santa Chiara, also, there are frescoes from 
Giotto's hand, for so loud the cry for Giotto that Robert the 
Wise kept him in Naples for some time decorating the Church 
he was building and also painting in Castello dell' Ovo, though 
nothing of his work remains there. Here, too, in the Church, 
as in the convent, the frescoes were white-washed that they 
might not be seized and, hopeless though they mtist have ap- 
peared, they have been treated so expertly some are well de- 
fined. Robert the Wise was builder of this famous old Church 
which Neapolitans love so well and has his magnificent tomb 
behind the High Altar, the inscription by Petrarch. Indeed all 
the tombs are of elegant workmanship and resting place of many 
famous dead. Yet I cared not so much for tombs of illustrious 
royalty as for the tomb of Paolina Ranieri, one of the few 
friends of the sad poet Leopardi; and that of Antonia Gaudino, 
the young girl who died on day set for her marriage. 

San Domenico is probably after the Cathedral the most splen- 
did church of Naples and holds chapels and tombs of the most 
illustrious of Neapolitan aristocracy. In the Sacristy are forty- 
five sarcophagi with remains of famous nobles — ancestors of 
many of the mighty Neapolitan families of to-day. One holds 
the bones of Marchese di Pescara, the Bel Sol of that famous 
Vittoria Colonna — loved by all world because she loved the 
great Michael Angelo. She also lies buried here in San Dom- 
enico among the distinguished dead. And here^ too, is the sweet 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING S15 

Chapel of the Crucifix — a Miracle Crucifix^ for one day as 
St. Thomas Aquinas knelt here in prayer, the Christ of the Cross 
spoke to him. 

It was in the adjoining convent where, when only a youth of 
seventeen, the princely Aquinas, in spite his mother's entreaties, 
received the habit of San Domenico. We ^ere shown his cell, 
now converted into a chapel and his lecture room where he 
spoke before the King and all his court. But there was one, 
the old custodian told us, who sometimes slipped in to listen 
and pleased St. Thomas far more than the King or all his 
Court. " This," he lowered his voice mlysteriously, " was a 
woman, — but a woman heavily veiled ! " We listened breath- 
less, expecting to hear some verger's romantic tale of some 
famous Neapolitan Princess who adored the Domenican Saint, 
who having once been cruelly tempted by a woman, avoided 
them as far as possible. But the heavily veiled woman who 
slipped in to hear the famous theological lectures, proved to be 
but St. Thomas' mjother — the Countess Teodora. Yet what 
audience of King or Pope could have pleased St. Thomas half 
so well as his own mother, coming humbly to listen to the great- 
est teacher of the day — the son whom she had entreated not 
to take the habit and from whom, once he had received it, she 
had had it torn off and ihim imprisoned for two years that he 
might not take the final vows. And we thought she should be 
forgiven all this since she repented and came so humbly to hear 
her son as he lectured here in this famous Domenican Monastery, 
but the custodian berated her soundly, recalling many divers 
troubles she had caused the poor Saint. Che-e-e but the Con- 
tessa Teodora had been a woman anticipatica! Ma che vuole? 
she had come of the C. house — people of molto spirito! 
Spirito may be translated in various ways — from pjeti/ to 
demon J but from the custodian's shrugs we took it here as none 
too complimentary and exchanged smiles of amusement at the 
frank mention of Conte C.'s famous old family to which the 
troublesome Contessa Teodora belonged. 

A short distance from San Domenico through a little street 
filled to superlative degree with picturesque, slumbers the old 
Chapel of Santa Maria delta Pieta. Though we thought the 
Dead Christ so beautiful that first day when we saw it here with 



316 CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 

Conte C. we have never gone again — so swiftly days fleet in 
dolce far niente. Liibke has criticised Sammartino's drapery 
as coquettish; but as one gazes on this masterpiece, all such 
frivolous thoughts are far distant — so ethereally touching the 
beauty. Yet i&w forestieri, the old verger told us, ever come 
to this Chapel holding its beautiful Pieta and it lies there in 
the quiet and peace among the dead of the old Sansevero family, 
a priceless jewel known to few. 

And round here there are many other churches and chapels 
slumbering, unknown to tourists, yet each with some precious 
treasure. Near here too is the old Church and Convent of 
San GregoriOy the Armenian, where once we came to see the 
poor receive their food. For here in this Gregorian Convent the 
monks, never showing themselves to the world, spend their lives 
humbly cooking for the poor. Here, sitting on the long seats 
alongside poveri who wait for food, one may watch the queer 
revolving tables and mysterious appearance of baskets and dishes 
of all sorts, each neatly covered with white napkin. And as 
each is handed by a lay brother into the eager hands of one of 
the waiting people, they seldom, though they may be tired and 
hungry, hasten away to eat until they have first knelt in thanks 
in the old Gregorian Church. For those who are too poor to 
pay, the food and soups are quite free. Those able to pay 
sometime, are asked only bare cost of the food — all the labor 
being cheerfully given. Thus do these Armenians serve God. 

The Church is very old — of the eighth century, so tradition 
says, and holds the venerable head of St. Gregory and other 
of his precious relics, beautiful old carvings and pictures. Yet 
is it one of those churches slumbering sweetly, unknown to tour- 
ists and in here no rude chatter of foreigners armed with red 
guide books ever disturbs the poor as they kneel to give thanks 
for the food received from the holy fathers of the old Gregorian 
Convent. 

Yet we too have been little better than tourists this morning 
— flitting from one point to another. Though not with the set 
plans which circumscribe the bona fide tourist, but with the 
dolce far niente which tempers every movement of life for those 
of this sweet Napoli. Still it is truly surprising what amount 
of ground one can cover in single morning when one is in the 



I 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 317 

right spirit — the tourist spirit I suppose! Tourists, though, 
seldom take their precious time for the Neapolitan churches — 
the impression prevailing that churches here in Naples are of 
little importance! And truly, if these here in sunny, light- 
hearted Naples are so beautiful and rich and rare in treasures, 
what indeed shall we find them in serious, intellectual Rome? 

How we are ever to manage all the wonders of Rome, an 
audience with the Holy Father and both Queens, have some new 
gowns made, shopping and a hundred other items — all this 
just at the Easter season when Rome will of course be over- 
flowing, is quite past comprehension. D^oubtless we will be 
running to Cook and begging him to plan our days with the 
same nervous ardor with which tourists pay court to him here 
in Naples. 

Leisurely sipping an ice up on the balcony of Galleria Vit- 
toria overlooking Cook's entrance, we smile now at poor tourists 
rushing so madly into his office to consult — often over most 
trivial aff"airs. Indeed while in there the other day, we heard 
one poor American woman anxiously asking how much she 
should tip the boots at her pensione — explaining to the great 
amusement of all who heard, he had cleaned her shoes but once. 

Yet who knows, but that once in Rome, we shall soon be as 
Cook-addicted as any of these tourists? Or will we have fallen 
so into the sweet-do-nothingism of this adorable Naples, that we 
will not care for the sights and wonders of Rome — only bask- 
ing in the sunshine and sauntering among the people. But no 
— we will probably rush madly from audience to ruins, from 
ruins to shopping, museums and churches. Since the sunshine 
of Rome will not be so wondrously gold as this of Naples, nor 
the people so gracious as these dark-eyed Neapolitans among 
whom we saunter now. 



Open my heart and you will see, 

Grav'd inside of it, * Italy* 

Such lovers old are I and she: 

So it always was, so shall ever he." 

— Robert Browning 



TOG. 

Napoli, March 19th. 

THIS^ the feast of San Giuseppe, great giorna di festa of 
all this gay, gala Napoli and we have eaten the fritters 
of the day and viewed the wonderful processions of gorgeously 
vested priests and acolythi. And bought for the black-eyed 
bambini of the streets, gay fete flags and windmills marvelous, 
and for ourselves a statuette of Madonnina by that most won- 
derful mad sculptor of Naples, Vincenzo Gemito. And amazed 
once again these people by wearing emerald green motor veil 

— not half so startling as the portentous pea-green umbrellas 
they themselves carry! And eaten the fritters for second time 

— so good are they, and ended the festa by helping receive at 
Casa P. in honor of the Duca's fete day and dancing with uni- 
forms dashing and bold. All with brave face though with hearts 
heavy, knowing we shall not soon again see Bay of Parthenope 
lie like bowl of beaten gold in the noonday sun, nor look across 
at hour of sunset when all Neapolitan bells are throbbing with 
joy in remembrance of Gabriel's blessed visit, to where its purple 
depths mirror the Capri cliffs. 

Gibbous moon to-night has turned the sapphire of the Siren's 
bay into great shimmering sheet of molten silver, and for last 
time Naples lies at our feet glittering with her thousand lights 
like some splendid tiara, softly dazzling with matchless jewels. 
And there in the tortuous little streets as full of mystery as 
Neapolitan tavern is full of wine, we shall not see gleaming 

318 



CITY OF SWEET-DO-NOTHING 319 

to-m^orrow night those most precious of all jewels of the great 
tiara — the little lamps of love before Madonna. 

For this our last day in this adorable old city of the Siren 
divine. And if we thought her so ethereally lovely that first 
night as we winged our way joyously into her siren waters, how 
infinitely more beautiful is she to us now that we have come to 
love her in each varying mood — each with its own captivating 
charm. For Napoli, you must know, is after all, but a sun- 
kissed, flower-smiling woman and changeth ever. How her stars 
have shone to-night! Yet brighter, more wonderfully lovely 
than eyes of any woman — except it be Madonna. Felicissima 
notte! 

An interruption from Maria — but interruption startling ! as 
you yourself shall perceive. 

" Cava signorina mia, to me it has been told that countesses 
and duchesses are rare as the sunshine in thy land — non e 
vero? " 

And wonderingly I confessed them somewhat rarer, since for- 
sooth we had sunshine more often than any Italian would be- 
lieve, even with the saints to witness. 

" Madonna mia! And how it will be, my sweetest signorina, 
all thy friends art in a rage once thou art returned ! " 

But why — chi sa? 



AUG 31 1912 



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